


sugar blue

by townpariah



Category: Thor (2011), Thor (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cowboys, Hiddlesworth, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townpariah/pseuds/townpariah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tom flees west. or goes on another weird vacation. ranch au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hibiscus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brodinsons (aeon_entwined)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/gifts).



> contains: minor original characters, missing shoes, creative liberties, and [this guy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Dawson_\(actor\)).

 

*

 

The sky loomed wide overhead, beating down the dust-clogged road like fire.

Tom fell asleep on the shuttle ride to the ranch, lulled by the rhythmic churn of the wheels underneath him. He watched the view outside flicker past him in a hazy smudge of color, as suddenly and without notice, the landscape shifted into rolling open countryside. Billboards which at first dwindled in number then disappeared, and in their place sat prosperous bottle-green hills flanking the road in a continuous wave. 

Occasionally, a dazed-looking man straddled a cherry red tractor idling by the roadside, but more often than not the view was all trees and sky and even more trees. Houses lay scattered miles apart. 

He’d planned this trip six months ago in the middle of a long snowy winter. It had seemed like a good idea at that time when all he wanted, he thought, was an open space, somewhere that was nowhere, a place, as the botanist _William Bartram_ had once put it, far removed from the seats of strife.

Emma had called him crazy. “You’ll die out there, you know,” she had said, a week after he’d decided to tell her. “You’re not really serious, are you?”

Tom was.

He’d made all the necessary arrangements, calling friends and family to inform them of his little leave-taking. They came to the consensus that he was having a crisis of selfhood after his career had suffered a dry spell of two years. Every actor had them; very few recovered. Some went and partook in musicals. 

His family, of course, were only partially right. 

After his brief stint in a twelve-part Swedish crime drama, the quality of scripts that fell on his lap began to deteriorate, until inevitably, Tom started doing guest appearances on shows whose target audience were women in their late fifties. Finally, he began doing voice-over commercials because it paid well and were beautifully mindless. All he had to do after all was fake an accent and read a few lines of dialogue.

Because of the absence of steady jobs, Tom thought it best to divert his attention elsewhere, to other simpler nobler pursuits like writing a novel in an attempt to reclaim his zest for life. It never went anywhere, though from time to time he went to cafes in his neighborhood where, while polishing off buttered scone after scone, he wrote and rewrote his prologue.

He’d been clicking around his computer one day when a stray pop-up ad flashed on his screen. _Rivervalley Ranch_ , it read. _Start your adventure today._

The online brochure promised acres of rolling farmland sweeping away into a mottled blue horizon. Epic views of scrubland, clean sunny air. A surrounding dusty hamlet untouched by the hand of time. A link Tom followed led him to a full page teeming with pictures of happy smiling campers bedecked in cowboy boots and Stetsons in various states of relaxation. These people all had good teeth and seemed… eerily serene, like they truly enjoyed draping themselves backwards across rickety fences, stroking the rippling hides of fat ponies. 

There were cattle and horses and a thriving miniature petting zoo, according to the website, but also for an additional fifty dollars, one had the option of an in-room Jacuzzi and a one-on-one nature walk with a ranch guide of his choice.

Every picture in the gallery featured at least one handsomely dressed man in riding chaps and flannel, hanging in the background, grinning bashfully up at the camera or chewing contemplatively on a piece of straw, one thumbed hooked into a belt loop. It was every pornographer’s wet dream.

Lured by the promise of a good time, bored and feeling foolishly impulsive, Tom booked himself a room. 

And now here he was.

 

*

 

Tom jerked awake, banging his temple against the window as he surged up from his seat. The sky outside had softened to a rolling gray bruise. He disembarked at his stop, which, as it turned out, was nothing more than a strip of dirt hemmed by scraggly patches of wild grass where Tom had no doubt snakes would feel very much at home.

Tom watched with sinking dread as his shuttle trudged forever out of reach, its headlights scouring the road like blinking insect eyes.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to be alone for very long. A dark blue pickup truck emerged from the bend, easing to a stop just a few feet away from him. He could hear the discordant notes of a rock song playing softly on the stereo as a man with lanky blond hair rolled down the window and poked his head out the driver’s side. He scrutinized Tom from head to toe and then back again. 

Tom didn’t like it.

“Uh,” the man said, squinting at something in his hand. “Are you Tom?”

“I’m here for the, ‘full ranch experience’,” Tom explained, quoting directly from the brochure. He waved it in the air to exemplify his point.

The man blinked at him and then laughed, rubbing a hand across his mouth. His stubble caught the light. “Right, okay,” he said, squeezing his hands together. He didn’t wear skin-hugging flannel or speak with the lazy Southern drawl Tom had hoped would be part of this cultural experience, but his hands looked sturdy, rough with calluses, worker’s hands, Tom thought. Which meant things could still be looking up. 

“Do you need help with your stuff?” he asked, climbing down to open the passenger door. 

Tom waved him away but the man unhooked Tom’s bag from his shoulders anyway, an invasion of personal space that made Tom feel, not only mildly violated, but strangely flustered because of it. He watched as, without ceremony, the man tossed his bag in the backseat. A second later the bag tipped forward and rolled onto the floor with a heavy thud.

“My laptop was in there,” Tom said.

The man heaved it back to the seat, muscles flexing. “Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. 

He slammed the door with a grunt before clambering back into the truck. Tom clipped on his seatbelt and the man raised his eyebrows at him expectantly. “You all set?”

Tom wanted to go home immediately. “Of course,” he said. He smiled weakly, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt and the thighs of his trousers. Tom’s cheek, when he fingered it, was creased where he’d slept on it. He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror: his hair was flat on one side, puffy on the other. Perfect, he thought. He looked unhinged. 

They drove through crushing silence, interrupted from to time to time by the staticky hiss of the radio and the crunch of dirt under the tires.

Fifteen minutes later the man introduced himself as Chris, reaching across his seat to shake Tom’s hand perfunctorily. He had a reliably film grip. Tom wondered what else he knew how to do with his hands.

“I’m one of the ranch guides,” Chris said. “My family owns the place and I help out every summer when there’s people over.”

“Tom,” Tom said. 

Chris nodded, gaze appraising . “How was your flight?” He hunched over the steering wheel, smiling. 

Tom sank against his seat and shrugged, suddenly tired in spite of the two hour nap he’d just had. “Hellish,” he said. He had sat next to a young couple whose baby wailed every ten minutes. He suspected he may have developed an inner ear problem. There was a constant ringing in his head he found particularly jarring.

“Sorry to hear that,” Chris laughed when Tom told him all about it. “But it gets better from here. You’ll love the place, I bet.”

“How are you so sure?”

Chris flashed Tom a soft smile that made Tom inexplicably nervous. 

“Everyone does, sooner or later,” Chris said, turning his attention back to the road and tapping a hand across the steering wheel before gripping it tight. His hands, like his biceps, were enormous. Tom felt dwarfed by comparison.

 

*

 

The farther a place was from civilization, the harder it was to get out.

Tom knew he was going to regret this the second Chris turned off the engine and led him genially up a hill. 

They’d driven on a gravel road that flared out into a long dirt lane, and then up an equally unimpressive driveway that led to a standard grayish farmhouse where a row of other pickup trucks, some in better condition than the others, were kept in separate bays. There was a tractor in the far corner, muddy and worn, green paint peeling off the sides. Overhead, a bird squawked – a sign of bad things to come.

The climb uphill was steep, which left Tom staggering a few paces behind. He was out of breath before they’d even reached the crest, berating himself silently for not having the good sense to pack better shoes. The brochure failed to mention improbable terrain, the way it casually left out a noticeable lack of professionalism. Chris was supposed to be a ranch guide, but he whistled and jangled a set of keys in one hand while Tom labored over the climb, scuffing his best shoes on the flinty path. He wasn’t even American. Tom detected an Australian lilt in his accent.

“Are we there yet?” he asked for the sixth time. They weren’t.

He lunged over a felled log before finally catching up to Chris who smiled again and continued on his way, swinging his keys around a finger. Not too far ahead, like something from a book, was a handsome wooden house with red gabled roofs and shuttered white windows. An ancient rocker sat creaking on the front porch. Next to the house to its left was a sugar maple where an old truck tire hanging from a rope stirred lazily in the breeze.

Tom felt out of breath.

“We’re expecting a few others tomorrow morning,” Chris told him, pushing the door open to let Tom inside. He gave Tom a quick tour of the place. The living room which functioned as a rec room was outfitted with several stuffed armchairs, a billiard table, a marble-topped counter, a five foot aquarium where multicolored fish swam lazily around. In the corner of the room, an enormous fifty inch flat screen TV played the evening news. There were twelve rooms in total if you counted the public bathrooms. A second living area opened out into the patio at the back.

Tom’s room, just like the rest of the place, had clashing pieces of furniture. The bed was neatly made and quilted, and the only window bordered by awful floral curtains fringed with lace trimmings courtesy of, Chris explained, his mother. Tom had a view of the front yard which meant nothing to him because he couldn’t see past the tree outside.

“Dinner’s at seven,” Chris told him as soon as Tom lowered his bag to the floor. “Usually there’d be a buffet set up but since it’s just you…” He shrugged and then pointed down the hall. “Fridge is well-stocked if you feel like making something. Junk food’s in the cupboard. So are the eggs. Knock yourself out. ”

Tom swished the curtains closed. “Terrific,” he said. “Anything else I need to know?”

Chris shrugged and explained a few more things: how to operate the shower, which Tom only half-paid attention to, why he shouldn’t go wandering out at night, (“things” lurking in the dark) where Chris could be reached (in the adjacent shack, knock three times) before finally leaving Tom to unpack.

“I’ll see you around,” said Chris when he’d finished. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thanks,” Tom said. “I will.”

He threw himself on the mattress as soon as the door closed, drumming his fingers across his stomach as he stared up at the high ceiling. He was already ticking off the things he had forgotten to bring on this trip: a camera, a good book, crackers he could munch on in case he didn’t like the food. Music.

Tom shucked off his shoes, closing his eyes. 

The room smelled like wood oil. 

He turned his face into the sheets and breathed.

 

*

 

Tom waited for about an hour before wandering into the kitchen.

Chris wasn’t there, which was a good sign, so he made himself a sandwich and watched whatever was on TV for awhile. He was supposed to shower right after his meal but he couldn’t seem to turn the water on. He tugged on the knob, twisted the lever, held down the red button and tried various combinations of pulling and turning but nothing was happening. He went to bed instead, sweaty and feeling gritty, like he’d just doused himself in sand. 

The next morning he woke feeling uncomfortably hot in the same clothes he’d arrived in. He couldn’t find Chris anywhere when he went to inquire about the shower but he did manage to run into Chris’ parents in the kitchen, Leonie and Craig, who were more hospitable in comparison and polite, and informed him breakfast would be served in an hour. 

“I’ll send someone in to fix the shower for you,” Leonie promised. 

When Tom emerged freshly changed an hour later, there were other visitors in the living room: a family of four from Kentucky, a group of university-age students -- all girls -- on a summer holiday, and a guy in a leather jacket and flannel pajamas who sat quietly in a corner and introduced himself as David. He was from Essex, researching a role and had his initials (D.D.) tattooed on his right wrist. 

Tom thought he was pretty cool.

“Have I ever seen you in anything?” Tom asked him after breakfast.

“I mostly do theater,” said David, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Have I seen you in anything?”

Tom laughed. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”

David smiled knowingly. It was a code of conduct between struggling actors: getting a callback was hard enough; you didn’t push for details. 

The first item on the itinerary was a short walk around the property. Chris’ brother, Luke – bald, stocky, big arms, the kind of guy who reminded Tom of a friendly marine – issued all of them a “survival pack”, a complementary bag filled with ranch essentials, he said, containing miniature bottles of mosquito repellent, chamomile lotion, sunscreen, and shower gel. 

They were also given a plastic whistle in case they wandered off from the hiking trail and got lost. That happened often, Luke told them, fixing a pointed look at the children in the group, a boy and girl of about four and six pulling at each other and giggling every time Luke said, “all right” at the end of each sentence.” (“This is the petting zoo, _all right?_ ” “Do not feed the animals chocolate, _all right_?”) 

It was best, Luke said, to use the buddy system. That way if they ever got lost at least they had somebody with whom they could share their misery.

Luke led them around the ranch, taking them into the outskirts of surrounding woods, while his younger brother, Liam – the third and youngest Hemsworth brother who looked curiously like Chris but with a narrower hawkish face –, brought up the rear and flirted with some of the girls. The rest of the morning was spent under the growing swelter, sweating off the grease of breakfast as Luke regaled them with stories of life on the ranch and his experiences as a professional horse trainer. 

Tom lagged behind because he often stopped to take pictures with his phone. He wondered where Chris was. When he’d asked David if he’d seen him around, David just shrugged and said, “Chris who?”

They broke for lunch at half past eleven, making small talk among themselves. Tom shared a table with David.

When he wandered back to his room afterwards, the door was open even though he remembered he’d left it shut. There were noises coming from the bathroom. Wet squeaking, the sound of something like a monkey wrench falling flat on the tile. Tom poked his head in cautiously. Crouched on the floor in raggedy jeans was Chris whose hair hung in a loose ponytail behind his head. His shirt had hiked up over his back where sweat had pasted the flimsy material to his skin. He was tinkering with the shower handle, shoes leaving soot on the marble floor. He looked up as soon as he heard Tom clear his throat. 

“Hey,” Chris said, looking faintly embarrassed. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” He wiped his hand across the front of his shirt, leaving a large wet print on the chest.

“Lunch had just finished.” Tom shrugged, dragging his eyes up from that point of interest to Chris’ face. “How’s the shower?”

Chris gave the handle one last vicious tug before stepping back. It turned on, gushing sprays of cool water. “Great,” he said, holding his hand under the spray and laughing. “You can use it now.” He pointed at Tom’s arm.

“What happened to your arm?”

Tom raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t even noticed until Chris brought it to his attention. His elbow had a patch of red bumps the shape of western Europe – exactly the kind of thing Luke had warned them about when he told them not to touch anything weird on the walking tour.

Chris’ eyebrows drew together in concern. “You have your ranch kit?” 

Tom raised the bag to eye-level. 

Chris exhaled in relief. He ambled over and shook out the bottle of chamomile lotion, pushing it towards Tom like he thought Tom was a kid or mentally deficient. 

“Right,” said Tom, feeling vaguely annoyed. “Thanks.”

Chris gathered his stuff from the floor, pulling the shower curtains closed before lingering in the doorway. He lingered for what felt like a long time, watching Tom wait for him to make any sudden movements. Tom felt hyperaware of his presence, and shifted casually from one foot to another. His spine tingled and his skin itched. His entire body felt like a tea kettle rapidly filling with heat.

“I’ll see you around,” Chris said, finally, breaking the silence and springing back. He waved cordially.

Tom watched him walk down the hall, the slope of his great wide shoulders straining against the loving embrace of his cotton shirt. He looked like he belonged in an A&F ad. Tom tried hard not to blink but couldn’t. “I guess I will,” he murmured to himself. He scratched his arm. 

Later, after he’d rubbed chamomile lotion on his elbow, he was surprised to find that the itch had gone completely.

 

*

 

He should’ve gotten the indoor Jacuzzi; that, at least, would’ve occupied his time.

There was little to do after dinner and even less after people started drifting back to their rooms, too stuffed with pork chops and cornbread to play strip Scrabble in the living room.

Tom found David in the patio an hour after everyone had left, smoking quietly in one of the plastic lawn chairs, his legs crossed at the ankles. He looked strangely at peace even though half an hour ago he’d been chatting up Leonie and manically gesticulating every five seconds. He was singing to himself, a tune Tom recognized but couldn’t name.

“I didn’t know you smoke,” Tom told him, sitting next to him and reclining in his seat. The stars were out tonight, dotting the sky and shimmering. They were nothing like the stars in the city, choked by smog and street light, invisible among the thick roll of clouds and discontent. 

David laughed. “These aren’t cigarettes.” His voice sounded raspy all of a sudden.

“Oh, I know,” Tom said.

“Come sit down with me,” said David, gesturing him over.

“I already am,” said Tom.

David shrugged. From the inside of his jacket, he produced a small bag of hand-rolled joints. Gingerly, he freed one from the pack. He handed it to Tom who declined politely, raising his hands palm-up. He didn’t want to do anything that could get him kicked out of the ranch or worse, arrested and deported back to the homeland. Or maybe the laws were flexible in America, Tom thought. Still, he didn’t want to take any chances. He was here on vacation. Any life-ruining decision would haunt him forever.

“Sorry,” Tom said. “I don’t smoke.”

“Trust me, Thomas, you need it.” David waved the joint in his face. “See, you just seem a little stiff to me. I can only hope you prove me wrong. Don’t be nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous?”

David shrugged again. Tom sighed and let the joint bob from his lips. He was easy. Too easy sometimes. Which had always been a problem. David reached over and lit the joint, smiling kindly before pulling away.

“Relax,” he said. “Live a little.” He squeezed Tom’s knee before uncrossing his legs.

Tom couldn’t remember the first time he’d smoked pot, though often he remembered why he did it the first time: he had wanted to get it over with, check off another box inside his head that led him a step closer towards being a real man. First non-masturbatory orgasm, first rave. First drunken phone call. 

The last time he’d dabbled had been seven years ago when someone had brought a stash of it at a party where he’d felt, at first, like the most uncool person in the room, hanging back in the sidelines, watching people have fun and flirt with each other. A voyeur, the way he’d often felt in life. He’d been twenty or twenty one then, feeling sorry for himself and thinking about his future which his dad always told him was going nowhere fast. His dad could always be counted on to give the best pep-talk. 

The next morning, Tom woke up pasted to someone’s floor, his shoes missing, his clothes smelling distinctly of puke. He went home in a cloud of stink that day, his shirt crusty with beer stains; he took the tube in his socks and got some pretty interesting looks. Still, he regretted nothing.

They sat smoking for a time until David excused himself to bed and left Tom alone in the patio, waving away mosquitoes and other prickly nocturnal insects. Getting high was just like other forms of mental unrest, like getting drunk or drinking an entire bottle of cough syrup. Tom felt the edges of his mind soften, his grasp on reality loosen. He got up and went to the front yard.

He knew what he wanted to do as soon as he saw the truck tire swing in the breeze. Tom kicked off his shoes, toes sinking in the soft grass as he positioned himself stomach-down through the center. His arms dangled in front of him. His ass was raised slightly in the air. Tom used his bare feet to push himself until the rope was wound in a tight spiral. Then he let go, picking up his feet from the ground and letting the rope spin until he thought he was going to ricochet across the hill.

“Tom?”

Tom blinked one eye open. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep. He felt suddenly hungry. He opened his other eye and saw that it was Chris standing there over him, his massive shoulders to the light so that he looked gilded like a messenger of the Lord. His hair hung loose for a change, soft cascading waves around his face. “What are you doing out here?”

“I think the question is what are _you_ doing out here?”

Chris shone a beam of light at Tom’s face, lowering the torch in his hand after Tom protested and flailed. “Are you drunk?”

“Are _you_?”

Chris looked amused. “I’m looking for Greg.”

“Who’s Greg?”

“One of the kids. He’s wandered off. Been missing for about an hour, maybe two? Luke and Liam are searching the house, I think, and a few other guys are scattered around in case he decided to go exploring or something. I hope he hasn’t gone very far.” He made a face, staring at something across the distance, frowning. 

“What are you doing down there?” Chris raised an eyebrow.

Tom sniffed. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Chris tilted his head to the side. “Frankly, I’m not sure,” he said, looking like he wanted to laugh.

Tom wasn’t sure either, and he still felt hungry as he eased himself from the center of the tire, staggering back against the sugar maple. He wondered if they still had any leftover pastrami sandwiches in the kitchen; he wondered where he’d left his phone.

Chris, stepping back, stared down at Tom’s feet and Tom found himself doing the same shortly after. His toes seemed unnaturally white against the dark grass, fish-belly pale and dainty. 

“Where are your shoes?” said Chris, already scoping the area for them, flashing spots of light across the grass with his trusty torch. After a minute, he gave a triumphant noise and said, “Ha! Found them! Here they are,” and tossed them at Tom who jumped as they hit his ankles.

“Thanks,” Tom muttered, sitting down heavily on a patch of dry grass as he stuffed his feet back into them. They seemed tighter for some reason and Chris started snickering.

“What’s so funny?” 

Chris shook his head, tugging him up to his feet as soon as he’d finished tying on his laces. Tom wiped his hands across the seat of his pants, noticing with dawning realization that it felt damp when they should not have been. His palms came away with flecks of mud and he glared up at Chris who only smiled widely and clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

Death, Tom thought. A slow and painful death.

“I have an extra torch,” Chris said, handing one to him and clicking it on and off, like Tom needed to be taught how to operate it. Tom snatched it from him before he gave the both of them epileptic seizures. 

“You could help out, if you want. Look for Greg.” Chris shrugged. “We need an extra pair of hands.” He waggled his eyebrows at the ‘hands’ part and Tom thought he looked ridiculous. He wasn’t even a cowboy, he also thought. Nobody but Craig wore flannel. 

“You in?”

“Whatever,” Tom said. It sounded noncommittal; cool. He didn’t want to commit before he knew what any of this entailed. He followed Chris downhill, straddling several steps just to catch up. When he did, reaching Chris’ elbow, Chris slowed down to wait and asked him if he was all right.

“I’m great.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’m just,” Tom said. He grappled for the perfect word. “ _Great_ ,” he finished.

 

*

 

They set out for the woods.

They walked for about an hour, past dark wind-bent trees and hissing grass, calling out for Greg simultaneously until their throats were hoarse and Tom threw up his hands and finally asked what had been bothering him ever since. 

“Where are the horses? The men in cowboy boots and jolly hats, gathered around a campfire?”

“Jolly hats?” said Chris. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Tom rolled his eyes. “I thought this’d be a fun and stress-free environment. I thought there’d be cowboys! Like the brochure had promised.”

“It’s only your first day,” Chris told him, laughing. “And my brothers and I are cowboys. Sort of. A little. There are horses, I promise. I can show you tomorrow.”

Tom wasn’t convinced. “You’re not wearing flannel. Or leather chaps.” He pointed at Chris’ pants, which were tight in the right places and had decorative rips at the knees, a poor excuse for pants, Tom knew, even though he was far from a connoisseur. “Not a cowboy, obviously.” He laughed, not knowing why he found that funny, exactly.

“I’m sorry I left them in my cowboy closet,” said Chris with a snort. “Why are you so upset?”

“I’m hungry, my feet hurt.” Tom started counting off his fingers. “And I want to ride horses. And there are none!”

“You want to ride horses? At midnight?”

“I hear it’s particularly freeing,” sniffed Tom.

“Well,” Chris said after a moment, scratching the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “You can’t ride horses in those shoes, mate. I mean, loafers?”

“Yes loafers,” said Tom. “They’re classy, aren’t they? Women love men in classic shoes.”

“Sure,” Chris said with a short laugh. He shook his head like he didn’t believe it before bumping their shoulders together in what Tom assumed was a gesture of camaraderie. 

“I could teach you how to ride tomorrow,” Chris said quietly, pausing to tug at a low-hanging branch of a tree they’d ducked under. He let it go with a whoosh.

“I love to ride,” blurted Tom. “Well, I would _love_ to ride. I haven’t really been on an actual horse, but in this TV movie I was part of a few years ago, I got to ride this _fake_ horse, you see. I was strapped to a saddle attached to a motor.” Tom made a feeble attempt to describe it with his hands. “It shook up and down. It was nice.”

“You rode a Sybian?” Chris asked with some disbelief.

“What?” 

Chris looked away, biting his lip. “Nothing,” he said, rubbing his temple like he was getting a migraine. They walked some more in the quiet, not talking, until Chris stopped abruptly in his tracks and grabbed Tom’s shoulder, frowning at something his gaze had fixated on. 

Tom heard only the rush of wind through the leaves but Chris’ sudden silence made him nervous.

“Shhh,” Chris hissed, bringing his fingers up to his lips.

“I wasn’t even saying anything,” Tom complained. He kept himself well hidden though, behind Chris, thinking, well, if a hungry wolf came loping out of the darkness, at least Chris got to die first. He was thicker and therefore had more meat, and would keep a predator occupied for awhile, giving Tom ample time to either say his prayers or run for his life.

But it wasn’t a wolf that emerged from the shadows, or anything strange or terrifying that posed a real threat to their lives; it was just Luke, huffing out a breath as he waded through the moonlit inky murk. He had Greg with him who sniffed and looked scared and whose shirt was caked in mud. His eyes shone with unshed tears. He glanced up at Tom and Chris, scrubbing a fist across his cheek. 

Tom remembered getting lost in the woods himself when he was eight, how he had cried and eaten wild berries and thought he’d never get to see his mum and dad again.

Chris rubbed a hand across his chest, laughing in relief. “ _Jesus._ You scared the shit out of me, man.” 

Luke turned his gaze to Tom after exchanging what looked like a complicated handshake with Chris. “This happens a lot,” he explained. “We tell people not to wander off but do they listen?”

“They don’t,” Chris continued, like it was a well-rehearsed spiel. He swung an arm around Tom’s shoulders companionably, hauling him from the tree he leaned against. Up close Chris smelled good, like newly turned earth. Like warm skin, mineral and sweet. Tom sagged against him in spite of himself.

“Come on,” Chris said. “You still hungry?”

“You have no idea,” Tom told him.

They set off again and Chris’ arm fell loose around Tom’s waist as they went. Then it lingered against Tom’s hip where it curled for a second before unlatching itself as Chris pocketed his hand and walked several paces ahead.

 

*

 

The next day began with promise.

Tom woke at noon, feeling faintly buzzed and loose-limbed. He showered to rid himself of the feeling and was surprised to find a note slid under his door. It was from Chris. _Riding Lessons at 4 – C._ , it read. The note felt strangely illicit in nature which gave Tom a secret thrill. Private lessons, he thought, and didn’t know why he was suddenly excited.

Tom pocketed the note and went to get some coffee. Everyone had left for another nature walk which meant he had free reign over the kitchen. He started making himself a sandwich and seated himself at the counter, looking over a baking magazine someone had left in the living room. He was halfway through it when Chris appeared, clomping towards him, looking sweaty but cheerful.

“Hey,” said Chris, rapping his knuckles against the countertop. He wore his hair in a ponytail again, neat and tight, and when he leaned forward, the V of his shirt dipped low over his collarbone.

“Hi,” said Tom. He mopped up the crumbs from his face with a table napkin, swallowing his last bite with some difficulty.

Chris stared at him for a few seconds. Gradually, his smile faded. “You seem…” He trailed off and gestured with his hand. “Different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know.” Chris looked at him again, unflinching, swiping a thumb over his chin in thought. “Just different.”

“I got your note,” Tom told him, just so he could change the subject and pretend he didn’t feel self-conscious under Chris’ scrutiny. “I don’t have riding clothes though.”

“No problem,” Chris assured him. “I can lend you some.”

“Awesome,” said Tom. They stared at each for a second longer than Tom felt comfortable with.

“Sorry if I acted strangely last night,” he said. He had to say it. He remembered everything in vivid detail. Chris had walked him back to his room and told him, teasingly, not to wander off too. And Tom had wanted to lean up and touch his face, squeeze his cheeks until they bulged like a squirrel’s, but instead shoved Chris back from the door so that Chris staggered back, grinning. He’d wanted to do other things too, but thinking about them made Tom feel guilty and unable to look Chris in the eye.

“I may have smoked something,” Tom confessed, putting great emphasis on the _may_. “One of the guests –” He didn’t want to tattle – “may have offered me something. _May_ be.”

Chris waved a hand. “You were hilarious.”

“Hilarious good or…?”

“Good,” Chris laughed. “Hilarious good.”

“Good,” Tom said. Then he burst out laughing too. “Oh god,” he said. He was glad he hadn’t done anything _too_ stupid.

Chris pushed himself off the counter half an hour later after a glass of orange juice and a plate of sugar cookies that Tom found in the cupboard and laid out for him. He claimed he still had some chores to finish, animatedly gesturing with his hands to convey their magnitude and importance. “But I’ll see you at four,” he promised, lifting his hand in a wave and walking backwards.

Tom watched him until he shut the door.

 

*

 

Emma, like most girls in Tom’s family, went through a horse-crazy phase. She collected books about horse-riding, cutting up pictures from magazines that she taped haphazardly on her bedroom wall and then took down as soon as she turned eight and realized her true calling: ballet. Horses were for little girls.

Tom called her on his way out of the house, a finger plugged in his left ear to muffle the piercing yip of one of the family dogs bounding towards him. “Guess what I’m about to do,” he said.

“Tom, I’m at work.”

“There will be horses involved,” Tom told her. 

Emma laughed, a little girlish giggle that made Tom laugh too. “Take a picture for me,” she said before she hung up.

Tom was thrilled when Chris led him to the stables, showing off his family’s best horses all of whom were named, he said, after the best American writers. It had been his dad’s idea – he used to be a college professor in the eighties before Liam was born – though he allowed Chris and his brothers to name a few of their own. Chris’ horse was named Bixby after a pet of his that had been run over shortly after his family moved to America.

“Was Bixby a dog?” Tom asked. The fond way Chris had described him made him sound like one. 

Chris laughed. “ _Actually_ ,” he said, pressing his lips together like he was biding time. “He was a gecko. We lived in the outback and I found him wandering around outside and my parents said I could keep him. I was ten or something.”

“Some childhood you must’ve had then,” said Tom.

Chris shrugged. He ducked his head shyly, pocketing both his hands. “I was barefoot all the time and like, half-naked.”

“Must’ve been brilliant,” Tom said, feeling only vaguely guilty for picturing it, a younger gawky Chris with tanned shoulders and shorter hair. “I went to boarding school so I didn’t have much of a childhood. Well, no, actually I enjoyed my time there. It wasn’t without its moments. I played rugby a lot. And sang in choir, which wasn’t really… There was a boy,” Tom finished, not sure where he was going.

Chris smiled at him without pressing him for details.

The stables were well-ventilated and clean though stray tufts of hay often littered the floor where the horses were housed. Horses peered out lazily from their stalls. Some huffed, whinnied. Chris reached out across the chest-high door to stroke the side of Bixby’s neck. 

Things took a different turn, however, when Chris introduced Tom to Whitman, the meanest, friskiest, most untrusting horse his family had the pleasure of owning. “You want to ride the best?” he teased, jerking his head in Whitman’s direction. “This, here, is the best. Better than your motorized fake-horse.”

Tom laughed without any real humor, swallowing nervously as Whitman fixated on him with dark luminous eyes capable of murder.

“I think I’ll ride Bixby,” Tom said.

Chris laughed but nodded. “You sure?” He patted Whitman who nickered sweetly, turning his head in Chris’ direction.

“Oh, definitely,” said Tom. 

Later, when Tom had mounted and was dressed in riding gear, complete with helmet and a drying glob of suntan lotion on his face, Chris taught him all he knew about horses, what sort of sounds they made when they were tired or feeling threatened, the difference between riding English and Western, why loafers were a bad idea to wear on a ranch.

“Just relax,” said Chris who stood by Bixby’s side in case he bucked and threw Tom off, paralyzing him forever from the neck down.

“I _am_ relaxed,” Tom lied. He gripped the reins so hard his knuckles began to hurt.

“Okay,” Chris said slowly, like Tom was a small child. “Well, keep your head and your shoulders up, your heels down, but try not to squeeze too hard. No, no, don’t jam your feet too far into the stirrup.”

“I’m trying,” Tom said, feeling majestically inexperienced. Chris patted his ankle to adjust his footing and then patted his hands to get them to relax their grip on the reins. 

“You look great,” Chris said, taking a step back. 

Tom wondered if the complement were meant for him or the horse. 

Chris steered him around the track for about an hour, ambling a safe distance away on foot and kicking up balls of dust with his weather-beaten boots. 

The sun was just setting, smearing the sky behind them a soft orange when Bixby sped up to a trot that jostled Tom out of his thoughts. Chris jogged to catch up to them, the muscles of his arms bulging as he re-tied his hair behind his head.

“You know,” Tom said, looking away as soon as Chris had finished. “I think I could get used to this.”

Chris glanced up at him, startled out of silence. “It’s not so bad,” he said carefully. “When you’ve been riding for awhile, like I have, it’s just…life.”

“Life,” Tom repeated. He smiled though he tried not to. “I think I could live here. It’d be nice. Fresh air, horses.” He breathed in deep. “Stars out at night.”

Chris made a face. “We don’t have motorized horses, and you can’t go around in loafers. You won’t last a month here.” He pointed at Tom. “And that’s me being generous.”

Tom laughed. 

When it became too dark to continue riding, they headed back to the stables where a couple of other guys employed by Chris’ parents were grooming and feeding the horses. Tom said goodbye to Bixby who ignored him and turned away when Tom patted him on the base of his neck, down where the neck met the withers just like Chris had taught him earlier. 

Then he and Chris began the long walk back to the house in easy silence, Chris humming something off-key, Tom pretending he didn’t want to hum along too.

 

*

 

What bothered Tom about the whole experience was that, even though nothing quite met expectation, things didn’t seem to disappoint, either.

The last twenty four hours, while punctuated with mediocre highs and lows in terms of enjoyment, were tiresomely monotonous, with scheduled hay rides that gave David allergies and other idyllic team activities meant to foster lasting friendship among visitors. They returned to the petting zoo where earlier that day Tom witnessed an elderly cow give birth. He couldn’t look away no matter how much he’d wanted to. It had been… life-changing to say the least. 

Still, it wasn’t as terrible as it sounded on paper, which often surprised Tom. He enjoyed the tedium, listening to the shrill call of birds as he went for walks alone in the afternoon, looking for a place with the best phone signal. 

Lapses in his attention occurred whenever Chris showed up in low-slung jeans or leaned against a fence to talk to him while Tom rode with the others. Chris always looked beautiful under the sun, white shirt rippling across his chest, belt buckle gleaming proudly. The hair on his arms shone gold. Sometimes he even wore boots. He was the selling point, Tom knew, of the whole experience. 

Later to his delight, Tom found Chris in the kitchen in the dead of midnight, a plate of sandwich in one hand and a can of beer in the other. A bag of crisps was held between his teeth. 

Chris lowered everything as soon as Tom neared, blushing as he grinned and dipped his head.

“Someone’s hungry,” Tom said.

“Yeah. A little.”

Chris smoothed back his hair, looking up. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” Tom confessed. He’d tried a variety of positions, lying on his side, flat on his back, curled like a child in a C shape, but sleep simply eluded him that evening. He was wide awake. To make matters worse, nothing good was on TV. And someone had changed the WiFi password; Tom couldn’t even e-mail his sister. He’d been aiming for an evening stroll when he heard puttering in the kitchen. 

“Well, I’m heading back,” Chris said, gathering up all the food to his chest. He hesitated at the door, glancing at Tom, like he wanted to say something. 

“Look,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb. “Since you can’t sleep anyway, you wanna maybe—” He shrugged and Tom said okay before Chris could even finish the thought. He felt himself blush and tried to hide it by laughing it off and rubbing his jaw which was raspy with stubble he’d forgotten to shave this morning.

Chris smiled slowly. 

That was how Tom got himself invited to Chris’ place, a shack with board-and-batten sidings and a terne-coated steel roof. 

The walls were lined with seventies wood paneling. The living area was spacious, at least twice the size of Tom’s own bedroom back at home, pine-scented and neat with a high shelf full of books next to a single leather armchair that faced a low coffee table. There were magazines everywhere, rolled up on the seat, or face-down on the mahogany desk where a restored transistor radio sat, knob and all, next to a lamp with a bendable neck. Surfing magazines, Tom realized when he picked one up.

In the far end of the room was a TV set – one of those old models with the VCR that Tom’s grandparents still used. Behind it on the wall, Tom could see as soon as he got close enough, was a flock of surfing postcards: surfers standing or crouching on their boards, suspended in towering waves. Tom leaned over and touched one, the glossiest of the set still unmarred by dust. It was a photograph of Chris. He had shorter hair and wore electric blue board shorts, his back facing the sea. He looked happy. 

Chris sat on the edge of his bed, a tumult of thick bedding pushed directly under the window. He started eating his sandwich, breaking off pieces that he stuffed in a wad in his mouth.

“This is so cozy,” Tom said, peering discreetly into Chris’ walk-in closet before seating himself across him on a lumpy beanbag. Chris laughed. “Do you live here?”

“Only when I’m in town, which is a few months a year,” Chris said. “I travel sometimes.”

Tom nodded. He grabbed a book lying on the very corner of the rug. He flipped through it. 

“My heart is gold, what will you give me for it,” he read, touching the curling pages. A bookmark fell directly into his lap: another photograph of Chris, this time with his friends, beers in their free hand as they cradled their surfboards. Tom stared at it for a moment before slipping it back between the pages.

“So, riding, surfing, is there something that you don’t do?”

Chris snorted on his beer. “Fly,” he said, nodding seriously. “What do you do? You act right?”

Tom shrugged. “Among other things,” he said vaguely. He liked to keep an element of mystery.

Chris smiled as he rubbed his hands down his pants. He told Tom Liam wanted to be an action star when he was little, that they used to take turns pretending they were John Rambo in the yard. “Are you any good?” he asked after a moment, licking his thumbs clean. 

“Oh, I’m great,” Tom said. “I’m the best.”

Chris laughed. 

“I don’t want to be famous, you know,” Tom continued. He picked at a thread that had come loose on his shirt. “I just want to do what I love. Which is. Acting.”

Tom glanced up. Chris was staring at him. His eyes were intent. “Do you get a lot of visitors here?” Tom asked.

“A few hundred every year,” replied Chris. “Mostly during the summer.”

“No, I meant,” Tom spread his hands to indicate the living room. “Your little shack. Do you get visitors?”

Chris laughed again, a deep rumble that seemed to reverberate inside his chest. “Not many, unfortunately. You’re one of the very few.”

The way he said that, winking and grinning, made Tom feel like he’d just won something: the lottery, the sweepstakes, a bet he’d made with himself. He stayed.

They played cards to pass the evening, a bowl of salted peanuts between them that went untouched. Before Tom knew it, it was late enough it was morning again, and the sky outside had lightened considerably. Birds chirped. Nearly sunrise. 

Tom tossed his cards on the table and made to get up, but his thighs had fallen asleep and he staggered a little. “I enjoyed this,” he said. At this point, he was drunk on Chris’ supply of Red Bitters. He felt lightheaded and serene; he felt good.

His chest lurched when Chris smiled at him. Tom felt even better. 

“At this point it’s probably easier to stay up, you know,” said Chris. He stared up at Tom through a curtain of blond hair.

Unable to argue with that logic, Tom sat down again.

“I’ll get us fresh peanuts,” Chris told him, patting him on the back as he passed. As soon as he’d gone, Tom made himself comfortable on the bed. He told himself he was just resting his eyes, that he wasn’t tired, not really, but the second his eyes closed, he fell quietly asleep, face pushed up against Chris’ pillows. 

He woke four hours later, fully dressed on top of the sheets, though his shoes had mysteriously gone missing. Sun filtered in through the window. Tom felt hot and sticky. His shirt had rucked up his stomach. He still had his pants. Good.

“Morning,” said Chris, slurping his coffee and staring down at him. 

“Mm,” Tom replied, a sound meant to approximate a greeting.

Chris left, returning a full minute later with a protein bar in his other hand. Tom watched him move around the room, putting things back in a semblance of order. His hair was untied, hanging limply on either side of his face. He looked freshly-showered. 

Tom sat up, reaching under the bed for his shoes. They weren’t there. Typical, he thought.

Chris, catching sight of him later on with his ass in the air and his head under the bed, said, “Shoes,” and pointed Tom to a corner.

“Right,” said Tom. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven. You’re going to miss your cattle drive if you don’t hurry,” Chris told him, parking himself on a stool that seemed too small for him.

“Do I even want to know what that is?” 

“It’s exactly what you think it is,” Chris assured him.

They walked back to the house after Chris had finished his breakfast. People were milled outside on the porch, newcomers Tom didn’t recognize, who looked confused like stranded orphans. They had rucksacks on their backs and carried rolls of sleeping bags. Chris said they were going camping in the woods.

In the living room, Luke was giving everyone a lecture on what to expect during a cattle drive. He wore a Stetson. Tom didn’t want to admit it, but Luke looked pretty cool, talking authoritatively with one hand on his hip. 

“You coming Tom?” Luke asked, flicking his eyes up at Chris and then back to Tom again. Something must’ve passed between them because a second later, Chris rubbed Tom’s shoulder and said he had something to do.

Tom said, “I think I’ll sleep in,” because he was tired and Chris had told him all he needed to know about a cattle drive on their walk back. That had been enough. He didn’t feel like partaking in the ritual.

“All right,” Luke said agreeably. “There’ll be riding lessons at two this afternoon. You in?”

Tom held up a thumb. “Definitely.”

 

*

 

The heat began to settle when Tom set out for the stables.

He wore the boots Chris had lent him the other day, scuffed and run down at the heels, with his last pair of clean socks. He went in his best jeans too, his good luck jeans, which were not as tight as they once were, but comfortable enough that any friction between his thighs wouldn’t agitate the horse.

There were already people there when Tom arrived. David, with his artfully coifed hair, stood texting on one side, wearing his famous leather jacket. Luke was helping Greg mount Alcott, a mare Tom had ridden the other day.

He couldn’t see Chris anywhere. 

Liam, who’d been saddling a bay Tom recognized as Hemmy, grinned up at him and waved. “Hey,” he said, brushing back Hemmy’s neck with his knuckles. 

Tom nodded. “Hey. Where’s Chris?” He tried not to seem too eager. 

Liam cinched the saddle around Hemmy, tightening the girth before lightly scratching his mane. “Oh, he’s around,” he said, smiling. “You riding?” he asked, finally looking up.

Tom shrugged. He had always liked Hemingway best – his forceful declaratives, the lean conciseness of his prose – but he didn’t feel like riding a horse named after him just yet. He’d seen how fast Hemmy often went; the bay was built for speed, not leisurely walks down the track.

“I think I’ll ride Bixby,” Tom said.

Liam nodded in understanding, but sighed, pretending to be put-out. “Suit yourself, then.” He gestured behind him to the stables where some of the trainers were clearing out the roster, and then led Hemmy away, cooing at him as he nickered and tugging lightly on his reins. “Come on, Hemmy, let’s see if someone wants to ride you today,” he said. 

Tom didn’t get to ride Bixby though, because Chris had apparently taken him for a stroll. Instead, he had ended up with Fitz who was friendly enough and peaceful and never lunged when he didn’t have to. The only problem was that Fitz was easily distracted and, like his namesake, content to keep at his own pace. Fitz chewed on stray blades of grass whenever he felt like it. It was like attempting to start a temperamental car.

Tom stayed behind even after he’d finished riding, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of Chris before dinner. Liam, who was the last to leave the stables, walked with him back to the house. He smiled before he left Tom in the kitchen. “Night,” he said.

Deciding to take matters into his own hands though he felt a little silly seeking Chris out, Tom paid the shack a visit as soon as everyone had gone to bed. The light inside was on but Chris didn’t seem to be home. Tom knocked a few times. Not even the curtains stirred.

He was about to head back, feeling annoyed with himself that he’d come so far without getting much out of the evening, when he heard the crunch of footsteps. He pushed himself off the wall. Chris. 

Chris blinked at him, grinning. He looked tired but otherwise happy. “Oh, hey,” he said. 

Tom was about to say hey too until he noticed Chris wasn’t alone.


	2. unfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tom has a bad case of the blues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains: pining, horses, and liam h.

*

 

Chris wasn’t alone, which should not have surprised Tom as much as it did.

Her name was Gemma. She had curves where they mattered and her hair was dyed a fiery red. She was pretty. And funny. And smiled as she shook Tom’s hand and introduced herself.

Gemma and Chris had been friends for a long time. It showed in the easy way they fell against each other, as comfortable as old clothes. They had a synchronicity that was enviable and could, like some couples Tom knew, finish each other’s sentences. 

“So, Tom,” said Gemma, tossing a can of Red Bitter at him which he’d almost caught with his face. “You’re an ac _tor_ , are you?”

“More or less,” said Tom. He tried not to stare at Gemma who sat half-draped in Chris’ lap. She had tiny shorts on, “trousers”, she said, complete with quotation marks, that she had hacked off herself with a box cutter. Her cowboy boots seemed well-worn, a dull cherry-red. She had long smooth legs.

“What have you been in? Anything we’ve seen?”

Tom snorted, trying not to roll his eyes. Failure, he knew, was simply the non-presence of success. So he shouldn’t feel bad his career hadn’t taken off; it was a mark of a dedicated thespian. Not selling out.

Tom rolled back his head. He stared at the ceiling. Sighed.“My voice was used in a few credit card advertisements,” he said. “I was in a few aborted BBC productions. I’ve done Othello a few times. I’ve starred in an episode of ER as a coma patient.”

“Everyone’s been in ER during some point in their lives,” said Gemma in a lazy drawl. “A coma patient? Really?” 

At Tom’s nod, she blinked and then laughed, taking a long pull of her drink. “Say something,” she said, waving her can at him all of a sudden. “Come on, like a line from a movie or a play or somethin’. You have a nice voice. I _love_ the accent. Chris’ here is all mangled.” She stuck out her tongue at him. 

For a second, Tom was afraid he’d lean over and kiss her.

Chris didn’t.

When the two of them raised their eyebrows, Tom put down his drink and wiped his palms across his pants, rubbing nervously. Chris looked expectant, hunching forward with his elbows on his knees. Tom looked at him then away, bracing himself and popping a crick in his neck.

“All right,” he said and inhaled. He tried to remember the words:

“You know what it is you miss most when you’ve separated from someone you lived with and loved? It’s waking with that _warmness_ beside you. Once you get used to that _warmness_ , it’s a hell of a lonely feeling to wake up without it. Especially in some dollar-a-night hotel room on the skid. A hot water bottle won’t do, and a stranger won’t do. It has to be someone you’re used to, and that you know loves you.”

Tom stopped abruptly. He’d read Camino Real ten years ago and those were the only words he knew. He grinned sheepishly up at Chris who smiled softly and started clapping.

Gemma joined in enthusiastically. “Honey, I don’t know what that was,” she said, throwing a hand across her chest. “But I thought that was just divine. I think I may have even gotten a little choked up.”

“Nice,” Chris commented. It was all he said all night. 

By midnight, Gemma was passed out asleep, snoring loudly like a donkey in Chris’ bed, swaddled in starchy sheets, still with her boots on. Chris cleared the table of beer cans, went outside to dispose of them, and then came back completely empty-handed, picking a stray peanut from the floor and flicking it outside the open door behind him.

“Tennessee Williams?” he said, grabbing something from behind the closet door. It was a bath towel. He threw it across one shoulder.

Tom shrugged. “It was either that or Shakespeare,” he said. “And I didn’t want to get into histrionics.”

Chris smiled. He began taking his shirt off, an action that propelled Tom to crowd himself against the adjacent bookshelf. But Chris only gave him a funny look before casually pitching his shirt at the hamper. He missed it by a foot. Tom picked it up and threw the shirt in and Chris smiled at him again. 

“I won’t take long,” Chris promised him. 

Tom stood outside the bathroom door for the good part of a minute, listening to the shower rings rattle as Chris drew the plastic curtains aside. A flimsy piece of wood separated him from Chris, he realized. They were only, at the very least, five feet apart. 

Tom thought he was going to keel over and die. He let his imagination run wild, picturing Chris naked, back slick with sweat, bracing himself against the wall as water poured down his shoulder blades. He thought of Chris’ hands, the strength in them, the thick curves of his arms. He closed his eyes.

Tom adjusted himself in his pants, tempted for a moment to grab Chris’ discarded shirt just to see what it smelled like. But he didn’t want to seem like a pervert, and it was a juvenile thing to do, so he waited out the door and behaved himself, until he couldn’t anymore and knocked furiously. 

“I think I’ll just go,” he said. His voice sounded high and tremulous. Panicked. “I’m a little tired, anyway. Chris?”

The door creaked open. Chris had heard him. He poked his head out. His hair was plastered to his cheeks. He smelled clean and minty, and his eyelashes had clumped together against his cheeks in wet spikes. Tom focused on regulating his breathing, aware for the first time, of the size and weight of his heart in his chest.

Chris frowned at him. “You sure?” he said.

“Absolutely,” said Tom. “Tell Gemma I said goodnight.” He waved and took a measured step backwards before he did anything stupid, like lurch up and grab Chris by the ears.

Chris nodded and Tom left as soon as Chris shut the door on him. He was grateful it was dark enough so that no one saw him lean against a tree, waiting until he had calmed down again and was less likely to run back to the shack. 

A crisp breeze swept past him, but Tom’s body felt hot, humid hot, like his skin was lit by fever.

Tom thought about Gemma, still huddled under the blankets comfortably asleep, and the fact that Chris only had one bed. Just one. 

On his walk back to the house, he realized his hands were shaking.

 

*

 

At breakfast the next day, David waggled his eyebrows at him. “How was your evening?” he asked, grabbing a buttered roll from the basket on the table. The last buttered roll. He elbowed Tom in the ribs which didn’t hurt but annoyed Tom a little.

“Pleasant,” said Tom diplomatically, trying, though with some difficulty, not to think back on it. He’d gone straight to his room intending to jerk off but then felt like a loser for even entertaining the idea. He decided to will away the mood which at first seemed almost impossible when he was rock hard and rubbing himself against the sheets. It wasn’t until a few hours later that sleep came to find him. He woke up cranky and had a cumbersome wank in the shower.

To console himself he reminded himself that he was here _on vacation_. Getting his cock rubbed wasn’t part of the itinerary, no matter how much he’d wanted it to be.

“You’re _sure_ nothing’s wrong with you?” David asked one more time.

“Trust me, you don’t want me to even _begin_ answering that question,” Tom told him. 

Thankfully, he didn’t see much of Chris that day except when he suddenly showed up in the middle of lunch, asking for Liam who’d been missing since breakfast, Chris said. 

Tom went riding with David who baked beet red under the midday heat but kept gamely on and raced Tom around the track. Afterwards, they shared a joint between them behind the stables, passing it back and forth until they had smoked it all and the sun began to sink. After dinner, they watched the news in the living room where Lux, Greg’s older sister, was sat thumbing a Gameboy.

“You know how I keep track of all my jobs,” David told him. “Even the ones I’ve not gotten?”

Tom didn’t respond but David continued anyway. “I keep a journal,” he said.

Tom didn’t look up from his phone. He shook it until it slipped past his grasp and it fell on the carpet. Then he shook it again. He hoped the brutal repetition of the movement would magically alert Emma to his misery. He’d been trying to call her all night but she wasn’t picking up. “Must be riveting,” he said absently, sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Thanks,” David laughed. He watched Tom tinker with his phone for awhile before casting his gaze back to the TV where a weatherman in a yellow raincoat said something about _scattered showers likely to develop into a thunderstorm._

“Hey,” said David, grabbing Tom’s elbow without warning. He tugged a few times. “Before I forget, me and the girls are going out for a walk later on. You wanna come along?”

Tom didn’t even have to think about it. “I’m in,” he said. 

David made a little cheering noise and hugged him sideways.

The ‘girls’ as David called them were named Jolene, Amber, and Regan. Completely legal, David assured Tom, before they dressed appropriately for their walk, armed with jackets to stave off the cold and lathered with mosquito repellant because they didn’t want to tempt fate. 

The girls were, to borrow his term, ‘free spirits’, meaning they were ‘friendly and wonderful and had that fresh pretty-girl smell that could only be associated with youth’. 

David’s world view was psychotically warped and Tom suspected pot had something to do with it. 

The girls giggled at nearly everything that David said; they were completely enamored by him, hanging on to his every word and smiling whenever he’d reached the punchline. He could’ve said something offensive and they’d still have thought he was amazing.

And Tom could see why: David was funny. A little dirty, but he knew how to tell a joke. Tom remembered a story his mum had told him a few years ago before his parents tired of their charade and finally got a divorce: how she’d met his father in an airport queue and fallen in love with the way he told a joke. She looked at him and knew he was going to father her children.

What a mistake that had been, Tom thought.

Tom tried not to brood as they wandered around the very fringes of the woods. He felt like dead weight, falling behind – though this time intentionally – and listening to the mildly comforting twitter of other people’s laughter. It was like, he could only imagine, drowning in cotton. Strange but a little relaxing.

Amber fell into step with him quietly. Small, about a head shorter, wide eyes and enthusiastic smile. Amber was great. Lovely. “You’ve been quiet all evening,” she said. Her voice was clear like a small silver bell.

Tom shrugged. “I dunno. I’m normally very chatty.”

“Just not tonight?”

“Nope,” Tom said. He smiled a little. “Sorry.”

Amber nodded and said nothing. They walked some more until owls hooted at them from leafy perches and the girls, all three of them, complained of mosquito bites. Tom slapped a hand across his face, frowning when he found his finger smudged in blood. He wiped his cheek on the hem of his shirt.

Later, they made sugary cocktails in the kitchen which they drank in the living room as they played charades. David kept losing. Regan fell asleep halfway through the game. Tom showed Amber a neat trick he could do with spoons and Amber shoved at him and laughed, tucking herself against his side where she stayed until the other two hauled her back to their shared room. 

David was right; Amber smelled nice, like peppermint.

When they were alone again, David threw his feet into Tom’s lap and smiled lazily. “Still sad, I see.” He tapped his nose knowingly and sniffed.

“I’m not sad,” Tom said. Because he wasn’t. The very idea seemed ridiculous. He simply felt…bored. _Unfocussed_. There was a world of difference between sad and... whatever it was that he felt now. If he could, he’d construct a diagram to better explain it to David. But he needed a whiteboard for that and some markers.

“And a melancholy air wrapped around him from dawn ‘til dusk,” said David with a sigh. He poked Tom’s knee with a toe.

“What is that? Arthur Miller?”

David snorted. “Purely David Dawson,” he said. He bent down to retrieve something from under the couch. It was his left moccasin. He put it on then crossed his legs neatly, lighting a joint and taking a long exhaustive drag. His fingers were cupped like an expert, elegant and refined, despite the dirt under his fingernails. He didn’t offer Tom a puff but he did smile at him before taking another drag.

They flipped through channels for about half an hour, eating from the same bag of unsalted crisps and not speaking. At one point, David turned to Tom and shook his head, sighing. The sigh of the profoundly sympathetic.

“Have some dip,” David said gently, rubbing Tom consolingly on the shoulder. “You’ll feel better, I promise.”

Miraculously, Tom did.

 

*

 

Tom wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen during this trip. Months before he even bought a plane ticket, he pictured a dreary dusty landscape, flat and full of tumbleweeds like in the old western movies he used to watch growing up. He wanted adventure and intrigue. Maybe not so much romance but a fresh perspective. He hadn’t prepared himself for Chris.

Chris was suddenly all he could think about. He hung in the periphery, the elephant in the room, with his perilously low jeans and sandy blond hair, and his white uncomplicated grin. Sometimes in the periphery, he also wore boots or a hat which he tipped forward over his face while he said, in a borrowed accent, _howdy_. It would’ve been easy to ignore him if he didn’t come up to Tom all the time to make small-talk.

Tom, often the person who couldn’t tell the difference between flirting and being nice, tried to avoid him. It was a foolproof plan: duck away as soon he saw Chris approaching. It worked for two days until Chris caught him one evening, sitting alone on the patio, staring up at the sky with his laptop open on the seat next to him. He’d been writing his mum a long e-mail when he heard something squawk in the distance. Then he found himself distracted by the sky.

“I feel like we haven’t talked in forever,” Chris said. He’d crept up so quietly, Tom jumped when he heard him.

“Gemma says hi,” continued Chris.

Gemma. _Right_. He’d almost forgot. “Hi,” said Tom, feeling crabby almost immediately. He hated it. He knew he shouldn’t care so much. Chris was a stranger; he had a life here, one that Tom was not part of and would never be. In another week and a half, Tom would be leaving the ranch and never seeing him again. He shouldn’t feel invested.

Chris took the empty seat to Tom’s right. The plastic chair creaked under his weight. His eyes, when he turned to Tom, looked strangely luminous in the dark.

“So,” Chris said.

“So,” Tom echoed, turning back to the stars. They seemed to wink at him from the sky, like they were mocking him for his predicament. 

“I’m just gonna go ahead and say it because it’s been bothering me for awhile,” Chris said in a rush. He held out his hands. “Did I do something to make you mad?”

Tom blinked down at him, confused. “I mean, you seem really… avoidant lately,” Chris finished shiftily. 

“I’ve only know you a week, and you’re worried you’ve made me _angry_?” Tom said. 

Chris shrugged, trying to seem casual. He pushed his hair behind his ear. “Hey, my parents may own the place, but I still work here, you know,” he said. “You’re a guest. And as an employee of this fine establishment, it’s part of my job to make sure you’re having a great time. So are you?” He twined his fingers together in his lap. “Having a great time?”

“Maybe,” said Tom, preferring to be vague. “I have one complaint though.” He made a jabbing motion in the air with his finger. “ _Faulty plumbing_. You have one of the most confusing showers in the world. I mean, it’s so difficult to operate. It takes me at least twenty minutes to turn the bloody thing on and by then I’d have lost my desire to shower.”

Chris laughed. “Seriously,” he said when he’d sobered up. He leaned closer but didn’t touch Tom or invade his personal space, a decision that did not go unnoticed. “Are you okay?”

Tom thought about the all-encompassing nature of the question. “I’m fine,” he said eventually. And he was. A _little_. It wasn’t a complete lie. He rubbed his elbows just so he had something to do. It was late, Tom knew, and he should be probably sleeping if he wanted to show up for breakfast on time for a change. Tomorrow’s breakfast options included bangers and poached eggs, his favouries. 

“You’re funny, you know,” Chris said after a long pause. 

Tom looked at him, trying to decide whether Chris was being nice or being nice for a _specific reason_. People often were when they wanted something from you. Most of the time it was a tossup between money or sex, but Chris looked like he got plenty of both on a regular occasion so that left Tom properly confused. 

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Chris continued.

“Well,” Tom told him, smiling in spite of himself. “That’s because I’m one of a kind.” He wasn’t of course. But he wondered if Chris thought that because of the crazy hair. As a kid, Tom often found strange things in his hair: balls of lint, birdseed, a tiny insect or two whenever he’d rolled too far under the bed or under cars, waiting for someone to notice he had disappeared. Once, he’d even found a toothpick.

The summer he turned seven, he had decided he’d had enough and sheared off his curls with his dad’s electric razor. Emma had called him baldie until his hair started growing back, but for three months he’d been “my brother _baldie_ ” and his head was white as a new golf ball.

“Yeah,” Chris agreed, sounding wistful and teasing. “I could see that, all right. There’s something about you. Something special.”

Tom burst out laughing. Chris did too and then reached over and squeezed Tom on the knee, as if all was right between them again. His hand stayed pressed to Tom’s knee for about ten seconds, warm, firm, everything that made Tom feel brave and impulsive but also a little nervous, before he let go and reclined in his seat, folding his arms over his head as he stared up at the canopy of stars above. 

Tom wished staring at the side of Chris’ face didn’t make his stomach heat like the bottom of an iron. 

He watched openly anyway: Chris’ chest, when he breathed, moved under the tautness of his shirt. Tom could honestly swear he could even detect a hint of nipple. Chris smiled absently and then closed his eyes, making himself more comfortable in his seat as he sighed and shifted around. His shirt, while it was passably tasteful, made Tom want to run his fingers through the soft material. 

Instead of doing that however, Tom rubbed his hands across his knees and thought about horses. Horses. 

It didn’t make him feel any better.

 

*

 

“Are you coming?” Chris asked, leaning out of the driver side of his ratty old pickup. He wore a white shirt underneath a blue flannel button down buttoned from the chest down. A silver thunderbird hung from a leather string around his neck, disappearing below his collarbone. They were finally getting somewhere, Tom thought. He stayed where he stood, admiring the view of the sun rising softly behind the house before ambling towards the truck.

“We’re heading to town,” Chris said. 

Liam, leaning over from the passenger side, flashed him a smile. 

Tom’s upper lip began to bloom with sweat after his twenty minute jog. 

“You should come,” Liam told him.

“I think I just might,” said Tom, unhooking an earbud and turning off the iPod he had attached to his arm this morning. Twenty minutes later, he found himself squeezed in the backseat as Chris drove through nascent summer heat. The road snaked up and down. He hit his head a few times against the half-open window.

A soft mist seemed to rise over the landscape, bathing the foot of trees that they passed with a mysterious unearthly haze. The windows were rolled down to let the air in but soon enough the temperature shifted. Tom felt his arms begin to sweat even though he’d popped back into the house for a quick shower before they left. 

The drive took the better part of an hour. By the time they’d arrived at their destination, a sleepy little podunk town with the barest of drug stores, a collection of family restaurants, a bank, a specialty store, another bank that looked eerily like the first one, and an industrial-sized supermarket chain, it was already time for breakfast. 

They ate at a diner with orange walls and a checkered linoleum floor pattern that nearly made Tom go cross-eyed the longer he stared at it. There was a blackboard behind the counter with the house special written in fading pink chalk. _Creamed Chipped Beef on Golden Toast._

There was so much chili in the menu that Tom worried for a second his tea and food would come laced with it, but when they arrived, steaming and smelling wonderful, they were made just the way he liked them: his pancakes soft and lovingly buttered, his tea just the right side of warm.

Liam and Chris ordered the same thing off the menu: two slices of toast with greasy bacon and eggs which they washed down with black coffee. Breakfast was a quiet affair but from time to time the peace was interrupted whenever Liam cracked jokes that almost never hit home. 

It was a nice gesture though. Tom smiled at all the appropriate intervals and murmured halfheartedly over the rim of his chipped cup. He read the morning paper, not glancing up even when Liam left the table for a minute to say hi to one of the waitresses – a friend he knew from school, he said – and Chris leaned forward in his seat, fingers steepled, to grin at him and nudge his foot under the table. “How was the food?” he asked as soon as Liam was out of earshot.

“Excellent,” Tom replied automatically, not taking his eyes off a glaring advertisement about used car parts. He thumbed to the next page.

When they were finished with breakfast, they drove to the supermarket next where Tom went to buy himself a cheap cowboy hat from a whole bin of them on sale and several copies of the same postcard that had a picture of a boot on it for his friends, Emma, and his agent. He knew he would never be able to send them in time but the idea of him buying them something, remembering them while he was away, would please them. Especially Emma who loved receiving gifts no matter what they were. She was a born hoarder; she still kept her little treasure trunk their uncle had carved for her when they were little. 

Chris and Liam were rapidly filling separate shopping carts with food and other items that were probably in short stock at the ranch: a thick length of rope, a garden trowel, about half a dozen pairs of rubber gloves, bags of dog food, a box of baking soda, a set of pruning shears and a particularly confusing item Tom later learned was a hoof pick used to remove objects stuck in a horse’s hoof. They also bought beer and paper cups.

“Building a dungeon?” Tom asked. 

Chris laughed but it was Liam who answered him, leaning half of his weight on the shopping cart. “I’m afraid we’re under strict orders not to disclose any kind of information,” he said, making a face. “Maybe a sex dungeon? Maybe?”

Tom laughed without meaning to. He went to pay for his things first and waited outside for Chris and Liam who found themselves stuck in a particularly long checkout queue. He stood next to a child perched on a small coin-operated horse, and who was dressed like a cowboy and chewing bubblegum, mumbling to himself as he made intermittent exploding noises like he believed he was piloting a bomber plane. 

“Hey,” Tom said to him, hoping to engage him in conversation. He wanted to come as a cool and friendly adult, the kind kids felt comfortable around. The really fun uncle.

But rather than respond with unbridled enthusiasm, the boy only looked at him warily, green eyes wide with thinly veiled suspicion. He unstraddled his horse, stumbling away as he glanced back at Tom every now and then to check if he were following him.

Tom wondered if it was the three-day whisker on his face that he’d forgotten to shave this morning. He rubbed at in diffidence before tipping his hat forward over his face like he’d seen outlaws do in spaghetti westerns.

Then he shoved his hands inside his pockets and began humming a tune he’d picked up on the drive.

 

*

 

Reality, as it often was, was disappointing. Tom learned this the hard way the eighth time he was turned down for a role his agent swore was made for him. “They’re going to love you,” his agent promised, smoothing down Tom’s hair.

They didn’t.

Rejection made you a stronger person, fearless in the face of life’s many tragedies, but it also made you go through life not taking anything seriously until someone like Chris came along and breezed frivolously in. And _then_ you paid attention.

Tom was having a hard time not to stare at Chris’ sweaty naked back as Chris retrieved something from the cooler at his feet, laughing at something David was telling him. 

They had driven to a remote lake that afternoon, surrounded by an arresting view of trees and open sky. Tom could glimpse the soft outline of foothills in the distance. A dock the color of parched driftwood sat creaking under a cozy shade. 

The girls – Amber, Regan, and Jolene – including some Tom didn’t recognize but who were probably friends of the family, lined the shore in denim shorts and thin cotton shirts. A few guys Liam knew were passing a baseball around, shirtless and wearing caps that shrouded half their face. 

Gemma, of course, wore a bikini top held together by a string tied behind her neck. One tug, Tom thought, watching her run around flailing, and the entire thing would come off. 

Gemma ran up behind Liam, tugging at the tail of his shirt, giggling whenever he turned to face her before darting out of his reach. Tom quietly sipped his beer in the corner. David went to sit next to him during which point the girls decided to go swimming, taking turns on the makeshift diving board and alternating between bellyflops and dives.

“You’re my favourite person here, Thomas,” David told him.

Tom looked up from the small of Chris’ back and blinked, missing his mouth and pouring a stream of beer down his lap. Jesus. David laughed at him for his trouble. 

“I’m your favourite?” Tom asked, wiping the spot dry fruitlessly. He raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess.”

“No, no, shh shhh,” David said, pressing an insistent finger against his lips. “No, see, I like you Thomas because you’re reliably morose.”

And there it was. The perfect word to describe his current disposition: _morose_.

“Are you high?” Tom asked him. 

“As a fucking kite, _yeah_ ,” laughed David, leaning against his shoulder. He sighed, squeezing Tom’s arm. “You’re so cute staring lustfully at that guy. You’re like a lovelorn little meerkat. What’s his name again? Liam?”

“Chris.” Tom ground his teeth together. Wrong Hemsworth brother. “His name is _Chris_.”

“Ha!” David jabbed a finger into Tom’s chest. “So you _are_ staring lustfully at him.”

“Lust does factor in sometimes,” Tom admitted, guiltily tearing his gaze away from Chris’ ass. “But most of the time I just want biceps like his.”

David squeezed Tom’s arm as if to make a point. “No, you don’t,” he said.

Tom shoved him off. “That actually _hurt_ , man.” He rubbed the skin to ease the pain.

David shrugged in apology. “Not as much as it hurts to look at you.” He smiled toothily. Then he went to get up, take his shirt off, and swim with the others, pale as the underside of Tom’s nan’s foot. 

Tom found himself laughing in spite of himself.

He joined them eventually after another beer and an encouraging text from Emma. Wisely, Tom kept his shirt on, swimming a few laps with Amber before climbing back up the diving board, hitching up his wet shorts. 

He refused to be let down by this experience by acting, as David put it, like a lovelorn meerkat. Besides, Chris seemed preoccupied himself – Tom could never seem to find the perfect opportunity to approach him – leaning back against his pickup truck and chatting up Regan. 

The cycle never ends, Tom thought.

Chris smiled, rubbing his elbows, as Regan laughed and touched his arm. Had Tom been a woman, he could’ve gotten away with touching Chris all the time without it having to mean anything. Also, he would have probably had a more promising acting career.

Sometime later, Liam took out a guitar which he passed around in a circle and eventually fell in Tom’s lap. 

“Play something for us,” David said, winking.

“Yeah, come on, something cool,” urged Liam who sat uncomfortably close and kept making moony eyes at him. It was a little disconcerting. The intent was welcome but the _intentee_ less so.

Tom strummed the opening chords of a Bob Dylan song whose words eluded him at the moment until Amber clapped her hands, seemingly thrilled, and began singing along. Liam chimed in too, off-key, and clapped him on the back so hard he’d almost lurched off the mossy log he sat on.

The afternoon didn’t end there because after a short while, Gemma showed up. She’d banged her foot against the board executing a perfect somersault and had waded back to the shore to inspect the damage she’d inflicted on herself. 

“I think I sprained my ankle,” she winced.

“Looks bad, Gem,” Chris told her, clucking his tongue. He examined the injury with a gentle hand, the dark purple bruise already forming.

Gemma waved a hand at him to indicate she was fine before hobbling back to the truck to retrieve her cigarettes. Chris helped her every step of the way, one meaty arm slung across her tiny waist as she wrapped hers around his expansive neck, and Tom found himself watching them again, not blinking for a moment, a weird new feeling bubbling up in his chest that felt a lot like heartburn. 

It simmered into something more recognizable when he caught sight of Gemma hugging Chris and kissing his cheek.

 

*

 

Tom had gone to relieve himself in a nearby bush when he heard a scratching sound behind him. He turned, seized by utter panic, which made him fasten his zipper so abruptly it nearly caught the skin of his cock. He turned, ready to bolt or fight, whichever instinct won out first.

It was David. Tom relaxed. “Hey, little man,” said David.

David was about a head shorter so Tom didn’t understand exactly why he was being referred to as _little man_.

David stood next to him, smiling, before unzipping and peeing. “Right,” Tom said after David had tucked himself back into his pants. David smiled again, wiped the hand that he’d used to grip himself on his shirt, and then squeezed Tom’s cheek with his other hopefully cleaner hand, touch lingering like an overbearing aunt’s.

“You be good, little one,” he said.

“I always am,” told Tom. It was only partially true but David didn’t have to know that.

“Right-o,” David said, and then leaned up on his toes and kissed Tom noisily, a loud wet disgusting smack that felt weird like kissing an estranged relative who only showed up during the holidays to air everyone’s dirty laundry. David stepped back, laughing, before waving and walking deeper into the woods. Tom fervently hoped he’d find his way back. He’d miss the guy if he never showed up again.

Tom was about to resume communing with nature – he still needed to pee – when leaves stirred somewhere to his left. 

He rolled his eyes. “David, _really._ Come on, don’t watch me, man.”

“I’m not David.” Oh. _Liam_. His eyebrows were raised. Like Chris sometimes, his shirt seemed to have magically disappeared. Tom wondered if this was a trait common among the Hemsworth brothers as he’d seen Luke a few times herding cattle without a shirt on.

“I was peeing,” said Tom, blinking as soon as he realized what he’d just said.

Luke’s eyes were wide. “With David?”

“Not like, together.” Tom waved a hand. “We _weren’t_ \--” He had difficulty finding the right words. “What’s up?” he said instead, rubbing his hands across his shorts. 

Liam smiled. He smiled like Chris, Tom thought, but it had less tenacity to it, less earnestness. He went up to Tom and shrugged one shoulder, shy, ducking his head. His cheeks were pink. 

Before Tom knew what was happening, Liam was crowding him against a tree, one hand curled around his neck like he meant to strangle Tom to death. But instead of ending him, which Tom would have preferred, he kissed him softly on the mouth, taking Tom’s woeful moan as a sign of invitation.

“Chris,” said Tom. “I mean, Liam. Liam, _wait_.”

“Oh god your accent is so hot,” Liam groaned, surging up against him, fist tight in Tom’s shirt. “ _Fuck_.”

Fuck indeed, Tom thought, getting a tongueful of younger Hemsworth before shoving him off completely. 

“I’m sorry,” Tom said in the sorriest voice he could muster. He really wasn’t; Liam terrified him a little. He was a “horse whisperer or something”, joked the other ranch guides; he talked to them as if they understood him, spending an awful lot of time in the stables than was healthy for a boy his age. He was also flirty and looked like a less attractive version of Chris. He had his smile, his eyes, but had rigid shoulders and an almost painfully self-conscious hunch that Tom recognized all too well.

“I thought you liked me,” Liam said, frowning. He sounded hurt. More hurt than he should be – on the verge of tears. Tom hated it when he inadvertently caused people pain; it always made him prone to making poor split-second decisions. He’d ended up dating a few people because he couldn’t bear to see them sad.

“When have I ever shown the slightest inclination that I did?” Tom said.

“I don’t know.” Liam shrugged. “You seemed really nice; you laughed at my jokes. You seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say so I _thought_. I don’t know what I thought.” He smiled ruefully, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

“Oh, Liam,” sighed Tom. He hugged him, figuring it couldn’t hurt, but then Liam started kissing him again, mistaking his empathy for something else. He’d gotten down to the side of Tom’s neck when Tom pushed him off again.

“No kissing,” Tom reminded him. He giggled as Liam’s nose tickled his ear. “None. No, seriously.” He put more force into his shove and sent Liam staggering off. Jesus, Tom thought, wiping his neck. This family was ruthless.

“Sorry,” Liam said. 

Tom felt like he was going to have a migraine. “Just _go_ ,” he sighed. 

“Can we still be friends?” Liam asked hopefully, a strange question in an even stranger circumstance. But he seemed positively crestfallen, like a kicked dog who didn’t know when to learn. “I mean…” He trailed off.

Tom would be leaving in a week anyway so he shrugged, pocketing his hands and said, “Sure, why not? Let’s be friends.” 

Liam left. Tom followed him out his shrubbery a few minutes later after he’d deemed it safe. He rubbed his tongue against the hem of his shirt and found Chris hanging around the edges of the woods, leaning against a tree. He was shirted, a fact Tom took with begrudging acceptance. 

“Hey,” Tom said, standing next to him. He smelled like freshly cut grass. 

“Hey,” Chris said back, glancing at him quickly. He sipped his beer quietly, staring at something across the water – Regan? Gemma? David baring his pasty flat ass and slapping it for a lark? – but he wasn’t smiling and for some strange reason, it made Tom feel even worse.

When the sun sunk low enough, they packed up their things and headed back, driving through rutted dirt roads Tom couldn’t differentiate even if he tried. He sat next to Amber in the backseat as Gemma leaned her head out the window and watched the featureless nowhere that streaked past them. Everything was flat and dusty and depressing.

Tom barely paid attention to what Amber was telling him throughout the drive. Her bare knee felt warm against his own but his mind was elsewhere, his eyes sneaking glances at Chris who sat stoically in the driver seat, saying nothing.

His silence made Tom feel uneasy. The roads slackened as the sun went down. It was dark by the time Chris rolled the pickup to a stop and dropped Amber and Tom off at the house. Gemma, Tom assumed, would be rooming with him. He tried not to dwell on that as he clambered uphill towards the house, Amber in tow, panting audibly.

 

*

 

Luke finished bridling Fitz after a full minute, stepping back to grin at Tom.

“He’s all yours,” he beamed, before leaning back against the fence, watching as Tom mounted Fitz with some difficulty. Fitz wouldn’t stop shifting even until after Tom was square on his back; he seemed jittery, like he could sense Tom felt the same. 

Luke tried to soothe Fitz by stroking his withers and handing him a treat. Tom, who felt like he needed a little bit of soothing too, waited awhile until Fitz had calmed down before taking him for a walk. He squeezed with his thighs just like Chris had taught him a week ago and Fitz’s canter soon turned into a steady gallop. 

Tom felt his heart speed up. This was riding, he thought, grinning as a cool breeze touched his face. This was exactly why he’d chosen to visit a ranch. Fitz slowed down a few minutes later, and Tom led him back near the fence where a group of his brethren were being fed by their caretakers.

Tom squinted as Chris, on Bixby, neared him lazily. Chris had a cowboy hat on pulled low over his eyes. A little showy, Tom felt, but he looked good, like a summer catalogue, especially in his rugged denim jacket and slightly worn out boots. 

Tom, in a helmet he’d borrowed from Luke, had clumps of hair peeking out from under the brim. He lifted his chin. 

“Race you?” Chris asked as soon as Tom got within hearing range. He was grinning, uncharacteristically upbeat for someone who didn’t speak more than two words to Tom last time. That should’ve been the big tipoff but Tom put on his best game face on anyway and shrugged to seem noncommittal, and by extension, unfazed. 

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I don’t know why you’re asking me that,” said Chris. He laughed, and Tom resented him for it. 

They positioned themselves at an imaginary starting line where Fitz kept attempting to wander off to join his other horse friends by the fences. 

Tom led him dutifully back next to Bixby who nickered as if mocking them both. Chris laughed again. 

“Show me a hero old boy,” Tom whispered to Fitz, leaning forward until his face was almost level with Fitz’s neck. At the signal – Luke’s piercing cry of “ _Aaaaand go!_ ” – they were off, hooves pounding hard on the ground, Fitz’ mane tickling Tom’s face. 

They were only supposed to go as far as the battered signpost but Bixby kept going and so did Fitz, evenly matched in speed. Tom, who loved a challenge, pressed on, the rush of riding making a grin split his face. The race never seemed to end; they glided past unyielding terrain, through a blur of woods tipped with the fading light of the late afternoon sun. The horses galloped with reckless zest. Chris swooped past Tom on Bixby, slowing down to a stop all of a sudden and tugging at Bixby who let out a whinny. 

Tom trotted past him before steering Fitz around.

“I win,” Chris declared. “ _Obviously._ ” He sounded smug.

“Obviously?” Tom wanted to scoff. “ _Obviously?_ But you had just… _stopped_. I don’t see how that counts as winning.”

Chris shrugged, dismounting Bixby and praising him for a job well done. They deserved each other, now that Tom thought about it. He’d always thought Bixby seemed a little self-important, strutting up to the mares like he thought he was hot stuff. 

Tom slid off Fitz but then caught his right heel in the stirrup. Fitz gave a sudden start, making Tom lose his balance, stumbling back and catching himself on his hands as he fell.

Chris rushed to Tom’s side. 

Fitz stood over Tom, expectant, head lowered in equine curiosity. His muzzle was inches from Tom’s face. Brilliant, Tom thought. He got up to his feet, wiping the seat of his pants. His hands stung at the movement. He lifted them to his face; they were dirty and a little scraped. 

Tom felt sheepish. 

“Oh, man,” said Chris, shaking his head. He examined Tom’s palms without warning, clicking his tongue though all he said afterwards was, “You’ve hurt them bad.”

“Badly,” Tom corrected him, fighting off a full-body shiver as Chris unfurled his hand open further. 

Chris looked amused but there was a wry edge to his smile. “Why are you being so…” He stared at something in Tom’s face, still clutching Tom’s hands. “I don’t know.”

Tom grabbed them back, pocketing them though he immediately regretted it. “I am _not_ ,” he assured Chris.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Chris told him.

Tom rolled his eyes. “Well, I can read minds.”

“Can you read mine now?” asked Chris, one eyebrow raised. 

Tom was about answer when Chris held up his hand to silence him. “Shh shh shh, wait,” he hissed, standing to attention. He furrowed his brows, face tense as he waited for several silent beats to pass. 

Finally, Chris lowered his hand with a frown. “Looks like it’s going to rain soon,” he said, whistling. 

“No it doesn’t,” Tom said.

“It will be in awhile,” said Chris.

Sure enough, on the ride back, the sky shifted to a despondent grey. Rain fell lightly and then came down in torrents.

 

*

 

Tom waited for the rain to die for a quarter of an hour before deciding to take his chances. He didn’t feel like staying behind when there was no one else but the two of them in the barn. Chris, who kept watching Tom from the corner of his eye when Tom pretended not to notice, had hooked his thumbs into his belt loops but had not taken off his hat.

What a pretentious prick.

Tom waved goodbye. “Right then, I’ll see you when I see you.”

Chris looked at him with concern. “You’ll drown out there,” he said, sounding gravely serious. “Wait it out. Come on.”

He tugged Tom back from the door so that they stood shoulder to shoulder, listening for a few quiet seconds as the rain pitter-pattered against the roof. It was calming, like practicing yoga and doing visualization exercises. 

Chris’ hand felt hot around Tom’s wrist, damp with sweat and thick, roughened with work. His grip on Tom’s wrist was firm but not forceful. If Tom wanted to, he could slip away easily, pull himself free with minimal effort because Chris would most probably let him, but Tom didn’t and stayed put, letting Chris hold his wrist rather awkwardly as they both pretended Chris wasn’t stroking his thumb across Tom’s pulse point.

“You’re leaving in a few days,” Chris said, voice low Tom almost didn’t hear him. 

“Yeah,” he affirmed. “Sunday.” Five days away, he realized. My how time had flown.

“Plans after that?” asked Chris next.

“I try not to make too many plans. There’s a lot less pressure that way.”

Chris smiled unexpectedly. When the rain didn’t peter out after an hour, he suggested they make a run for it. His place was a ten minute walk; there was a shortcut. 

“Let’s not turn this into a race again,” Tom said, trying not to think about his palms lest they started hurting again.

“All right,” Chris agreed, laughing his deep laugh. “On three?”

Tom shrugged.

Fifteen minutes later, he was dragging himself through the front door; his clothes, wet, stuck to his skin. There was mud caked on the knees of his pants after he’d stumbled on a climb.

Chris tossed a towel Tom’s way and began peeling off his own clothes. “Don’t track mud all over my floor,” he warned, before ducking and twisting himself out of his shirt. It landed with a wet plop against the wall before rolling safely into the hamper he’d pitched it towards.

Tom tried not to stare at his back. He heard the jangle of Chris’ belt buckle loosening and then turned around to give him some privacy. There was a pause during which Tom imagined Chris stepping out of the circle of his pants. It was easy to picture what his body would look like underneath: all that tanned skin glistening under the fluorescent light, the coarse layer of hair on his strong legs. 

Next to him, Tom was pale, his skin carefully tended, his body lanky and narrow.

“I think I’ll have a shower,” Tom decided, bolting out of the room. He locked the door as soon as it closed and stood fully clothed under the shower head for a long time before undressing and turning on the water. He felt refreshed afterwards, thawed and pink, his palms less sensitized, but then he realized he had brought nothing to wear. The clothes he came in were wet and ruined. 

Chris, whose towel dangled loosely around his waist, raised his eyebrows as they passed each other. “Laid out some clothes for you,” he said, because of course he _would_. He was Chris; he was perfect. Chris freed his hair from its strangled ponytail and disappeared behind the door. He didn’t lock it.

Tom dressed efficiently. He and Chris were nearly the same height so Chris’ drawstring pants were just the right length, though he found that they ballooned around his legs. He cinched the string tightly around his waist, tying two knots for good measure, before sitting on the edge of the bed and slipping on Chris’ shirt. 

It smelled musty, like it hadn’t been used in awhile. The front read _Surf City: Santa Cruz, California_ in big red letters. Tom touched the fading words reverently before walking around barefoot in the room.

While Chris showered, Tom took books out of their shelves and flipped through them, finding pictures tucked between the pages or old receipts. He found half a report card between the pages of _The Sun Also Rises_ and from what Tom could make out from the blurry writing, Chris was very bad at Maths.

When Chris finished, the door opened and let out sweet-smelling steam. Chris had shaved, had silky black boxers on, and was rubbing his hair dry with a towel. He grinned at Tom who quickly put down the book he was reading. He felt like he’d been intruding upon Chris’ life, looking through his things, running his fingers over pictures of him as a child.

“Missed me?” Chris asked. He was so full of charm Tom wasn’t sure whether he wanted to kick him or kiss him sometimes.


	3. into dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things are finally starting to look up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains: lots of sex.

 

*

 

Chris towel-dried hair while Tom sat in the corner, drumming his fingers against his knee. He felt comfortable in Chris’ clothes, which shouldn’t have been a bother. But it was. The shirt was soft from too many washings and Tom couldn’t stop stroking it, running a ragged fingernail over a piece of thread that had come loose at the hem.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Chris observed. He had leaned back, towel draped over his bare shoulders. His thighs were muscular. Tom stared at the hair on them before shrugging and tearing his eyes away.

“I’m thinking,” he said.

“Okay,” said Chris.

The rain didn’t slow for a long time. Chris took out pots and pans when water started leaking from the ceiling. Tom had to narrowly avoid tipping them over when he crossed the room to get to the mini kitchen where an oval breakfast table jutted out inelegantly from the wall. He sat down.

Chris was making coffee, his back turned to Tom. There was nothing in his fridge but junk food, he said. He took out an empty salad bowl and filled it with leftover crisps. Then he peeled back the lid from a container of dip and set it down on the table, like an offering.

“I love dip,” Tom said.

Chris laughed and parked himself in front of him. Because of the size of Chris’ kitchen, their knees touched under the table. Tom leaned forward on his elbows as he slurped his pulpy orange juice. It tasted watery. He swiped his tongue clean over his teeth, listening halfheartedly to the soft creak of the floor under his foot. It was still raining outside, in drizzling lines that looked, from Tom’s perch near the tiny window, like strands of melted glass.

Chris leaned so far back in his seat that his shirt lifted. He rubbed his hands together. Then he stared intently at Tom.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Chris didn’t even shrug. “I saw you,” he said quietly, and Tom knew immediately that the mood had shifted. “Kiss my brother. _Liam._ ” He said _Liam_ as if Tom didn’t know which brother he meant even though he’d been there and was kissed.

Tom wanted to fling himself out the window as soon as Chris crossed his arms, but he tried to handle the situation with a little more tact. Under the table, Chris’ foot moved and nudged his ankle, and suddenly, Tom didn’t know any of the right words.

“He kissed me first,” Tom said slowly, rubbing his neck and feeling self-conscious. “He said he liked me.”

Chris nodded like he was trying to wrap his mind around the notion. “Okay,” he said. No pause, no blink. He even shrugged, spreading his hands palm-first on the table in acceptance. _Okay_ , like he’d expected as much from Tom.

“Okay?” Tom repeated. “No hysterics? Or moral outrage? Quoting passages from scripture? _If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable?_ ” He made his voice sound deep and important but Chris didn’t even break into a smile like Tom had hoped. A lost cause then, he thought.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Chris said.

“I’m not trying to be.”

Chris didn’t say anything for awhile. When he did, a few minutes later, he asked, “Did you kiss him back?”

“I’m not comfortable with this line of questioning,” Tom told him. He didn’t like how Chris was looking at him, either. “Next,” he said, trying to make light of the whole situation.

Chris frowned. “You don’t have to make a joke out of everything, you know.” 

“I’m not joking,” Tom said.

“Okay,” said Chris. 

There was no more talking after that. Afterwards, Chris stood up and swallowed the last dredges of his lukewarm coffee. He set his cup down on the sink so that the ceramic clinked against the tile.

“I’m going to bed,” he said then clomped back to his room. Tom’s eyes never left his back.

 

*

 

“Look,” Tom said half an hour later when he’d finally summoned the courage. “I’m gay. If you’re uncomfortable with that, I can understand. I’ll just go.” He waited a beat for Chris to move from the bed but nothing of the sort happened.

Chris had been lying on his side when Tom crept into his room, hair a thick curtain over his face Tom couldn’t even see his eyes. He looked innocent, like a little kid, arms wrapped around a tiny throw pillow. Most people asleep looked younger, Tom knew. And Chris – he looked sweet on top of it. At peace. 

Tom sat on the edge of the bed, right where if he’d shift a centimeter, he’d fall flat on his ass. He wanted to touch Chris, to push back his hair and kiss him on the mouth. Sleeping beauty, he thought ruefully and smiled to himself. He patted Chris on the leg before getting up. “I’m going,” he said. It was what he’d decided. He wished he didn’t sound as disappointed as he felt.

The second he turned around though, he heard the bed creak behind him. Chris was sitting up slowly, like it was taking him a lot of effort to be pulling his weight. His feet flat on the hardwood floor, Chris leaned over his elbows and sighed.

“Come here,” he said.

Tom didn’t move. So Chris got up and pulled him by the tail of his shirt, turning him a little so that Tom was finally looking him square in the eye. Tom felt a little winded. Blood rushed to his ears.

“Chris,” he said. He didn’t know what that was a plea for, for Chris to stop or carry on with his plan. But it was Tom who kissed him first, grabbing Chris by the front of his shirt and hauling him up up up even though he was the shorter one. Chris’ mouth opened underneath his, his taste dark and wet and dizzying, his tongue brushing Tom’s as he cupped the back of Tom’s neck. They kissed for a long time, breaking away every five seconds before surging up against each other, cresting like tidal waves. 

Chris’ hands were under Tom’s shirt, feeling for his ribs. He’d pushed Tom up against the shelf which rattled as Chris drew him against it, sweeping his fingers greedily across the width of Tom’s back. Then he pressed forward with a vicious thrust and Tom felt like his skin had suddenly caught fire. He moaned and arched up against Chris, rubbing his clothed cock against Chris’ thigh until he felt himself close to coming. Then he leaned away, panting, against the row of dogeared paperbacks behind his head. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Tom said. 

“What do you mean?” Chris asked. His hair, loose, fell bedraggled around his face.

“I came here to be on my own,” Tom told him in between breaths, cupping Chris’ face and kissing him again. He wasn’t sure what line of thought he was pursuing. 

Chris made a low humming sound, like he was pleased, and rubbed the small of Tom’s back gently. 

“Do you want to fuck?” he said after a moment.

Tom didn’t know why he found Chris asking kind of hot. He wanted to have sex of course, but he was afraid that if they did, Chris would like him a little less afterwards. He said as much to him. 

Chris nodded, eyes intent on Tom’s face. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, and Tom stared back at him, feeling something shift all of a sudden, in the air, in the way Chris was kissing him lazy and without an ounce of self-consciousness, some invisible barrier loosening as things finally clicked into place and he thought to himself, _fuck_ , he really wanted to do this.

“I change my mind,” he said.

“Already?” Chris was smiling.

“Shut up,” snapped Tom without any real heat and seized him for a kiss.

They made their way to the bed, Chris walking Tom backwards until Tom had to crawl up to the headboard and wait for Chris to take off his shirt. He was tanned underneath and gorgeous, muscles rippling like water. He slid up to straddle Tom and curve his hands against Tom’s sides, easing them up under Tom’s arms and slowly inching off Tom’s shirt. He pulled it over Tom’s head, a passing glance of air making Tom’s skin pebble with want. 

Tom shivered as Chris licked down his neck, wrapping his tongue around a nipple. His tongue swirled and his lips closed tight around a deep suction, and Tom hissed as Chris’ other hand drifted down to his left nipple. Chris rubbed the hardened nub between his thumb and forefinger while his tongue curled around the other one in a leisurely stripe.

“Wait,” Tom said, reaching down to lace his fingers through Chris’ hair. He hadn’t mean to grab but there was no other way to get Chris to stop; he seemed pretty intent to get the job done without interruption, make Tom come without touching his cock. 

“What about Gemma?” Tom said. 

Chris said without looking up, “Please don’t kill the mood.”

Tom jostled him and Chris sighed, kissing down Tom’s bellybutton, running his nose across the sparse layer of hair that disappeared just underneath the waistline of his drawstring pants. 

“I don’t like Gemma,” Chris said. His breath blew hot against Tom’s hip. “She’s just a friend.”

“Do you like me?” Tom asked after a beat.

“Tom,” Chris said. He sighed again, scrubbing his face. “Come _on_.”

“Answer the question,” said Tom.

“Yes,” said Chris. Tom tried his best not to look too pleased but he couldn’t help it; he smiled until it hurt. Chris rolled his eyes in exasperation, then laughed, dipping his head again. He rubbed his cheek against Tom’s stomach; his teeth nipped gently at the skin before he pushed out his tongue again and began licking in earnest. 

Tom scratched him behind the ear. “Good,” he said, rolling up his hips. “Do you have a condom?”

Chris clenched his eyes shut, groaning. “No,” he said, pressing his forehead against Tom’s hip and breathing out audibly through his nose. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

“It’s okay,” Tom told him. “I’ll still let you fuck me.”

Chris’ eyes darted up quickly to meet his; suddenly, they were dark with promise, the pupils blown wide as Chris flared his nostrils. Tom liked that and imagined he looked pretty desperate too. He was so horny he stopped caring what he said anymore; he’d passed the barrier of rational thinking. 

“Take your pants off,” Chris told him. “Let me see you.”

Tom huffed out a laugh. “You do it,” he told Chris, guiding Chris’ hand to the string that cinched the waistline together. Chris’ fingers scrabbled to tug the knots free and drag Tom’s pants down his legs, bunching them around his ankles before giving them a solid yank. 

Chris sucked in a noisy breath. His palm on Tom’s flank felt hot. He moved it down to trace Tom’s hip and Tom shivered. 

“You look amazing,” Chris said, and reached forward to close a hand over Tom’s erection. 

Tom lurched up into the touch with a barely concealed moan, panting raggedly as Chris milked him of precome. Chris broke away for a moment, licking his palm, before stroking him again in precise measured touches meant to take the edge off but not end it. He thumbed the head of Tom’s cock, rolling the pad of his finger around the slit and smearing precome in a deliberate circle.

Tom bucked. “Jesus, _Chris_ ,” he groaned. “Just fuck me already.”

“You want it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” gasped Tom. “Hurry, come on.”

Chris left the bed for a minute to root through a drawer on the bedside desk. When he returned, kneeling with on one knee on the bed, he had a tube in his hands and was pouring a liberal amount of lube onto his fingers. 

He stared at Tom for awhile, lips parting as he breathed. Then he smiled wickedly and said, “Spread ’em,”

Tom obeyed, biting his lip and easing his legs apart. He tilted his hips up a little, hooking his arms under his knees to give Chris an eyeful.

“God,” Chris breathed. “Look at you.”

Tom made an impatient noise that was halfway between laughter and a groan. “Just get on with it already,” he whined and was promptly rewarded a second later: Chris teased his puckered hole with a slick finger, stroking the tight skin around his opening and rubbing with the pad of his thumb before pushing a questing finger inside. 

It took Tom a few seconds to adjust. It didn’t hurt; it was just uncomfortable and if he were more honest with himself, part of the reason was that he hadn’t done it in a while. A long while. He tried to relax and count to ten. He was on nine when Chris moved his finger around, bracing himself on the bed with one hand while his eyes flickered down to Tom’s face. 

“Keep going,” Tom urged him. 

Chris bent down to lick the sweat off his upperlip.

The next finger sank in with ease and when it joined the first one, Chris began a teasing rhythm that made Tom’s cock twitch with interest. He rubbed Tom sweetly open, shallow thrusts that didn’t feel particularly uncomfortable and were just a strange sensation altogether, but didn’t feel great, either. 

Chris slipped a third finger inside. Tom didn’t even think he could take it – Chris’ fingers were thick and long and he thought two were enough – but he did, and Chris let him have it, scissoring him open and encouraging him to make noises.

“I wanna hear you,” Chris said. “Come on, baby. Let me.”

Tom hissed as Chris fingered him loose, burying himself to the knuckle. It almost hurt. Almost. But Tom loved every second of it, his thighs quivering and slippery slick with lube, his cock leaking a thick drop across his stomach. His knees ached from being spread open for so long. 

Tom pushed his hips up impatiently, bearing his weight down against Chris’ fingers.

“I want your cock,” he panted. “ _Please._ I want it in me. Now. _Fuck._ ”

“Hang on a minute,” said Chris. He stroked in tight circles with his fingers, scissoring and pressing down. “Be patient. Only good boys get a reward.”

“ _Chris_ ,” Tom begged. His eyes fluttered close. He was so ready, he felt like he was going to burst any second. His skin felt tight and electric and shivery. “ _Please_ ,” he tried again. “I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll be good. Just want your cock, _please_.” He squirmed when Chris leaned down to kiss him, their chests touching, Chris’ hair curtaining his face. 

Chris made him work for it, pulling out his fingers and then thrusting them back in with a relentless shove. “Show me how much you want it,” he said and curled his other hand around Tom’s cock, stroking it in time with the scattered rhythm of his fingers. “You want it, right?”

Tom nodded. It felt so good he could hardly breathe. He bucked up into Chris’ hand, once, twice, and then he was coming, clenching around Chris’ fingers which rubbed determinedly at something that made his eyes see white for a second. 

He felt his toes curl as Chris squeezed him of every drop. And then Chris’ fingers were pulling back, and the resulting emptiness Tom suddenly felt made him moan weakly at the loss. He blinked an eye open and Chris was a blurry shape hovering over him, stroking gently up his thighs, kissing him on the knee.

Tom slid a hand between their bellies as soon as he’d recovered, rubbing Chris’ hard dick through his cargo shorts until Chris groaned against his mouth, crushing his forehead against Tom’s shoulder. His breath came in rapid pants. Tom thumbed the button free and slipped his hand inside the waist of Chris’ boxers, feeling his mouth go dry as soon as his hand closed over Chris’ erection. It felt thick and huge in his palm, like it’d break him if Chris had fucked him.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Chris whispered hoarsely. “ _Like that_.” He punctuated his next breath with a stuttered roll of his hips. 

Tom stroked him roughly, speeding up as he built a rhythm, encouraged by the noises Chris made. 

And then the lights above them flickered before blinking shut and Tom’s hand stilled, tightened, as darkness descended over them. Rain beat down heavily on the roof.

“Jesus,” Chris said after a moment. He rolled to the other side of the bed. 

Tom blinked as he waited for his eyes to adjust. “Did you come?”

“No,” Chris answered. The bed lifted on his side. “This happens a lot,” he explained with a labored breath. “I’ll get some candles or something.” 

He left the bed, sounding annoyed, and Tom heard a loud clang in the kitchen as Chris stepped on a few pans he’d set on the floor. He returned with a pack of candles later. He lit four and arranged them around the bed. The fifth he lit he put on a low stool next to the shelf. 

Tom worried something would catch fire, that they’d die in the ensuing scramble to escape. “Is it safe?” he asked. 

“Is what safe?” Chris gave him a weird look when he pointed at all the candles. Tom felt like they were attending a vigil. 

“Yeah, it’s safe,” Chris snorted, rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”

Tom shrugged. “I’m not worried,” he told Chris. “Just… _concerned_.”

“Okay,” said Chris with a light laugh. “Okay.”

Tom smiled at him and grabbed his arm. 

Chris’ solid weight on top of him, the broad width of his back under Tom’s fingertips, his thick firm thighs pressed warmly to Tom’s, the rasp of hair on them, made Tom arch up and kiss him with an open mouth.

 

*

 

“Hey,” said Chris the next morning.

Tom blinked. He had to make sure he wasn’t dreaming so he pinched himself twice. He was about to sit up when Chris reached over and kissed him, closed-mouthed and quick, before running his hand down Tom’s side and stroking his spine.

“Morning,” Chris said sleepily. His smile was huge and blinding.

“God,” Tom muttered, remembering half of the things he’d said last night, none of which he could have ever imagined saying even in his wildest dreams. He blushed, laughed, and was surprised when, rather than tell him to kindly fuck off now that they’d finished, Chris swept a thumb across his cheek and kissed him again.

“God, you’re just _amazing_ ,” Tom said happily, lips parting against Chris’ mouth in utter delight. 

Chris gave a breathy laugh that Tom felt rumble inside him as Chris yanked him forward, closer, crawling on top of him and pushing their hips together and carding his fingernails up Tom’s hair, scrubbing from the root up.

Tom felt his shoulders sag in bliss. He loved sex in the morning, how it was unhurried and comfortable, and how there was little fanfare involved in the proceedings. He spread his legs when Chris reached between them, grip firm around his rapidly hardening cock. Chris eased him through every stroke, varying pressure, sliding his palm a little farther down before reaching up the shaft until Tom’s cock was hard and wet in his hand.

“Wanna fuck you,” Chris hissed into Tom’s ear, teeth nipping gently on the lobe. “Come inside you.”

“Do it,” said Tom.

“Yeah?”

Tom nodded as the tip of Chris’ nose pressed against his temple. “Yeah,” he said.

Chris reached for the lube that had rolled onto the floor sometime during last night’s scuffle. Tom’s hips stuttered up as Chris breached him with the first finger, but unlike last night Chris was sloppy with urgency, working Tom open with a generous amount of lube to get the job done quicker. The second finger followed, circling Tom’s hole experimentally before sinking in down to the knuckle. 

Chris thrust them in and out, slowly until he picked up speed. Then Tom sighed and squeezed his arm, nodding for him to get started.

Tom was glad they were already naked because then that meant he could watch as Chris coated his cock with lube, tugging at himself a few times until he could no longer help himself and leaned over Tom.

Chris pressed the fat head of his cock against Tom’s hole, teasing it open until the tip slipped in without protest.

They both groaned simultaneously. 

“Jesus,” Chris said. He nearly bent Tom in half, hooking Tom’s leg over his shoulder as he pushed in perfunctorily, careful not to force himself all the way inside. He was huge and perfect and it would hurt if the pleasant burn didn’t make Tom look forward to the rest of it. He wanted to be filled and he ached for it, willing his body to accept the intrusion as Chris thrust in in tiny increments, screwing himself a fraction deeper each time.

And then he was buried to the hilt and Tom wanted to cry at how painfully good it felt, to be filled and spread open whenever Chris so much as pulled back his hips a little and slammed forward. Chris increased the speed of his thrusts as Tom relaxed into it, spearing him open with his cock and building a rhythm with every smooth slide of his hips.

Chris’ mouth caught Tom’s, wet and unyielding as he sucked Tom’s bottom lip between his teeth. He paused for a moment, sheathed to the root, breath hot against Tom’s cheek and so close Tom wouldn’t be surprised if Chris felt his blood pounding through his ribs. 

“You enjoying this?”said Chris.

Tom laced his other leg around Chris’ hip and dragged him forward in answer. He let out a whine when Chris refused to move. His cock was pushed so deep Tom became fully aware of just how stretched he felt, every shallow stroke of Chris’ cock making his own jolt in appreciation. The longer Chris stayed still, the tighter Tom’s skin felt. He was so desperate he was tempted to flip them over and ride Chris’ cock until it hurt and he could no longer move; he wanted to come.

Finally, Chris took pity on him, drawing his hips back with some measure of restraint before pitching forward with a vicious slam. He did that twice and Tom lifted his hips to meet him halfway, bearing down on his cock to get it even deeper because it felt so good. 

“Fuck me, _god_ , harder. Please keep going,” Tom panted. “ _Chris_. Just a little more, come on.”

Chris’ hips jerked up again, hand gripping under Tom’s knee to reposition it.

They alternated between kissing and fucking and made the bed creak in protest. Tom felt deliriously good stretched open he was so sure he’d still feel it hours later or tomorrow morning, the tight clutch of his body welcoming Chris’ cock each time it nailed home.

Chris rocked forward, deeper still, and Tom grabbed him by the shoulder and sobbed in pleasure. “It’s so good. _God_. Just. Chris. Touch me, touch my cock.”

Chris obeyed and gave him a gentle tug, and was about to say something when there was a furious knock at the door. Liam. Of all people. They ignored it for awhile and kept going, Tom’s mouth falling open as he choked on a loud moan.

“Chris!” Liam yelled. “Chris, seriously, man. Get up! Chris!”

“Really?” said Tom as Chris’ shoulders stilled. “I mean, _really_?”

He wondered what he’d done in his past life to have his early morning action infringed upon.

“Give me a minute!” Chris called out, voice low and strangled.

“A _minute_?” Tom repeated.

“Chris!” said Liam from the door.

“Little sh—” Chris clenched his teeth around the last word and slowly, cautiously, eased his cock free. It almost physically hurt for him to do that. Tom groaned at the loss, hole twitching around the head of Chris’ cock which lingered for a few seconds against his opening before Chris leaned away. 

Tom rubbed his dick to take the edge off but not so much that he could come from it. He lowered his knees, pressing his feet flat against bedding so that they flanked Chris’ sides. 

Chris clutched his ankle, surging forward to press a kiss to the inside of his thigh.

“I’m going to kill him,” he promised as soon as he pulled back. He was still hard as he put on a shirt.

Tom grumbled, leaning up on his elbows to watch him dress. Chris flashed him an apologetic smile before leaning over to kiss his cheek, one hand wrapped around the back of Tom’s neck. He put on the drawstring pants next, grabbing a suspiciously stained bathrobe from behind the closet door that he threw over the rest of his clothes to better hide his erection. 

“I’ll see what the little bastard wants and get back to you soon, okay?” he said. He tied the string loosely, arranging his hair in a messy ponytail. “I won’t be long,” he promised.

He was only gone five minutes but by the time he’d wandered back, Tom had already lost interest after he’d picked up a surfing magazine to read.

“My dad needs me for something,” said Chris, rubbing a palm over his stubble.

“Right now?”

Chris shrugged sheepishly. 

Tom nodded and pulled a shirt on, the same one that Chris had lent him the previous night. He walked around trouserless for a while until Chris threw him a pair of clean shorts to wear while he cleared the floor of pots and pans. Sun slanted in through the curtains. Birds were calling outside. It wasn’t raining anymore, Tom noticed.

“So this is it, huh,” Tom said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Chris had pulled his work boots on, not the boots he wore for riding which were badly scuffed with wear; these were ankle-high and had laces. Nice, solid work boots. It meant _serious business._

Tom stretched and yawned, sprawling himself across the bed. Chris watched him studiously, smoothing out his flannel shirt and tucking his hair back from his face. 

Tom sat up quickly and leaned on his palms. Then he stood before he overstayed his welcome. Morning afters were a delicate thing. “I better go,” he said, lifting his hand in an awkward wave.

“Tom,” Chris said before Tom reached for door. “ _Tom_.”

“Yeah,” Tom said. When he turned, raising his eyebrows, Chris was smiling. Then he was crossing the room in a few short strides and suddenly had his hands covering Tom’s waist. 

“It was great,” Chris said. “Really really _really_ great.”

“But you don’t know that,” Tom told him, because they hadn’t completely sealed the deal yet. The seal had not been properly … _embossed_. 

Tom was hitting Liam over the head with a shovel. Later. And tying him to a tree. He made a promise to himself. 

Chris laughed when Tom told him. Then he pulled Tom in for a kiss, squeezing his hip. “I’ll see you later,” he said.“ _Right?_ ”

Tom made a face, pretending to think about it for a moment. “Yeah,” he said, squeezing Chris back. “You will.”

 

*

 

Tom was a bad tourist as far as tourists went. He would always touch the wrong things or fail to pay attention to the guide when he didn’t correct him or her; or use the wrong adjectives or deviate wildly from the itinerary. Always the last one as he had, ever since he was a child, the tendency to wander.

It was probably why he often found himself in places he had never intended to be, not bad places necessarily or anywhere dangerous, just strange ones, like under bridges or in the middle of a busy intersection at noon.

This felt a lot like an intersection. 

Tom never wanted to shower again. He smelled like sex, like Chris, musky and sweaty. And he didn’t care; he couldn’t stop grinning, either. As soon as Chris had left the shack, he went to lie down again on the bed, turning his face into the pillows and breathing in its scent. 

It was the strangest feeling in the world but for the first time in a long time, he actually felt… serene.

 

*

 

David commented on it over breakfast. “You look happy,” he said. “Something happen?”

Tom shrugged, too blissed out to respond. 

“You also smell like athlete’s foot,” David said knowingly, but he was only joking, Tom knew, or at least wanted to believe, and cuffed Tom gently on the shoulder. He winked. 

David seemed to have mellowed out, lucid for the most part, though that could’ve just been the haze of contentment blinding Tom’s worldview. He didn’t go out for another ‘nature walk’ that morning but then David grabbed him by the arm after accosting him in the living room, eyes wide and manic like he’d taken imbibed something illegal again. “Tom,” he said. “Tom, you have to see this. Put your fucking shoes on and let’s go.”

“This” turned out to be a cow going into labor in the barn. Luke, Craig, and a man Tom thought to be a vet were crowded around it, muttering amongst themselves as the cow gave a pained noise. And then there was Chris, standing in a corner, hands on his hips, brows furrowed as he spoke to the vet and gestured to the cow in question eyeing them piteously.

Tom didn’t understand how he found that even remotely hot – Chris, not the cow – as they were in a barn and there was a cow about to give birth, but he suspected either the denim or the poor insulation had something to do with it. 

Half an hour later, David got bored of taking pictures and left. Another half hour later, the cow gave a shuddery moo, and something happened that Tom knew he’d never want to witness, not after the first time, so he looked away, shielding his eyes and sneaking peeks because curiosity kept winning him over. 

It wasn’t as horrible as the last time.

Finally, it was done, and there was a round of clapping.

Luke said, “I think I might need a beer after that,” and Craig laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. 

Chris ambled towards Tom later on, grinning widely. He looked sweaty but pleased. And it wasn’t everyday a sweaty but pleased Australian headed Tom’s direction, so he welcomed it, leaning against the wall and tilting up his head to smile flirtatiously.

“I’d kiss you right now if I wasn’t covered in placenta,” Chris said, and lifted his rubber gloves in emphasis. 

They looked slick and bloody and Tom laughed and couldn’t stop for a long time.

 

*

 

Time had a way of passing quickly.

Tom would spend the nights in Chris’ bed, reading or listening to music, and sometimes they would kiss standing by the sink or next to the shelf, Chris’ warm hands gliding under Tom’s shirt, his thumbs stroking Tom’s hipbones, though most of the time it never went further than a few quick fumbles that ended before they even began. 

Chris liked to hold Tom against the wall, pin him by the wrists, and lean over to kiss his wet and open mouth. He liked how Tom responded to him, he said, eager and wanton. It was always the quiet ones you had to look out for, and the same held true for Englishmen as they had the most to hide.

“My people escape confrontation with monosyllabic simplicity,” Tom told him one night when there’d been slow kissing. “We like waiting in queues for things. Of course I’m _repressed_.” Chris laughed at that and Tom tried not to think about how good he was getting at giving Chris blowjobs. 

Before he knew it, he had two days left at the ranch. Chris seemed to be perpetually busy in the last three days preceding his departure, entertaining a new roster of guests and driving them around.

It was David who told him about the farewell dinner. 

“You gonna go tonight, Thomas?” said David, slinging his arm around Tom’s shoulder and banging a fist against his chest. It was his last day on Sunday, too. 

“Where?” Tom said.

David shook his head at him like he was an exceptionally slow child, though Tom could’ve easily been, now that he looked back on it; his mum had always said she kept finding him sleeping on the carpet next to the dog and for a long time he kept clogging the sink with things he’d find around the house: pearl necklaces and coins, tin soldiers. 

“It’s fancy dress,” David told him. “So you can’t wear those old man trousers.”

“They’re comfortable,” Tom protested. 

“Not to other people’s eyes they aren’t,” said David. 

They hit town that afternoon with Luke driving them, Amber and Regan piled in the backseat on Tom’s either side. They went shopping for clothes to wear, cheap flannel shirts on bargain, paisley bandanas, denim skirts for the girls, soft leather vests with tasteful white trimmings. And of course: more cowboy boots. 

Tom bought a five dollar belt with a buckle that read _save a horse, ride a cowboy_ that he wanted to show off to people when he got home. David said he was disappointed there were no leather chaps at any of the stores they passed though that didn’t stop him from asking Liam where he could get them. 

As usual, dinner began at seven. 

Luke ushered them to a barn Tom had never been in, with heavy timber stairs and varnished loft railings. The place had been converted into a recreational space, with tiny Christmas lights hung from the walls and red foldable chairs assembled in a long line in one corner. A long checkered table held bowls of steaming food: corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, grilled fish and pork, chicken wings, coleslaw, potato salad, a red gelatinous mass carved in the likeness of Italy and a variety of thick sauces whose names eluded Tom. There was a tractor on one side of the room which people were taking photographs of.

Tom saw Liam on a makeshift stage, sat on a stool and playing a banjo. He looked like he’d dressed up for the occasion, his hair slicked back and his boots brand new. Tom had arrived in, though admittedly not his best, what he thought had been good enough given his budget: tight jeans washed out at the knees, the five dollar belt, a dark blue flannel shirt he’d folded at the elbows, and _boots_. They were nice brown boots he hoped would get him lucky tonight. He saw them in a shop window and _knew_ ; they were his.

Chris touched his elbow. He wasn’t dressed in anything special, just jeans and a long-sleeved grey shirt, but he had his hat on which he tapped twice before lowering to his chest. “Cheesy huh,” he said, looking embarrassed.

“It’s actually kind of sweet,” Tom told him, and tugged at Chris’ necklace, a small silver hoop dangling from a soft leather chain. 

Chris smiled at him and asked him if he wanted to see something cool. He led Tom up the loft which had been curtained off from public view. There was a battered couch sitting in the corner next to an old candy cabinet with a few buttons missing. A dartboard hung from the wall next to a poster of a beater pickup truck with a snub nose and high rusted fenders. Boxes marked with dates in felt tip pen lined the far wall: 1984, 1987, 1995-1997.

“Old toys we used to own,” Chris explained, reaching inside a random box and pulling out a red plastic BB gun. He tried to twirl it around his finger but dropped it midway and laughed, looking sheepish.

“So cool Hemsworth,” Tom told him.

Chris shrugged, blushing.“Want something to drink?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Coke, beer. _Fruit punch_?” Chris began rattling off options.

“Surprise me,” Tom said.

Chris nodded and took the stairs two at a time.

While Tom waited for him to return with drinks, he made himself comfortable on the couch. He felt something dig into his ass as soon as his back met the cushions so he reached under the seat to go have a look. What he retrieved when he’d pulled was a tin box fit to house a deck of cards. The paint had worn with age, the elegant lettering on its lid barely readable. 

There was a note inside that read in a little boy’s handwriting: CHRISTOPHER’S DO _NOT_ STEAL. The contents included a wad of bills held together by a rubber band, a rusted pen nib, a baseball trading card, and a miniature red convertible the size of Tom’s thumb.

“I’ve always wondered where that went,” Chris said, relaxing next to Tom with one arm curled loosely around his shoulder. He handed Tom a can of fruit punch while Tom handed him the box.

Chris’ smile, when he lifted the tin box to eye-level, was so soft it was almost heartbreaking.

 

*

 

Someone had started a conga line.

Tom slurped cold frothy beer from a red plastic cup that reminded him of parties he had attended during his university days and watched from the sidelines as David burst into song, sometimes crying, sometimes not, but all the time swaying back and forth on his feet as he raised his glass in salute to everyone. All throughout the night there were heaps and heaps of gravy to drown even the most tenacious of horses.

The whole affair wound down shortly after midnight when the last of the guests with one notable exception – David – started staggering out the door and back to their rooms.

Liam bid Tom goodnight with a wave Tom returned with awkwardness.

There was hardly any food left when it was all over. The table was a train wreck of leftovers and upturned bowls and cutlery. David, drunk, moaned like a whale as he hugged a foldable chair to his chest and rested his cheek on the seat. He started snoring after a few minutes.

Tom watched him and sighed.

“Wanna take a walk?” Chris asked.

Tom shrugged. It was quiet outside except for the thrum of crickets. The air smelled sweet and fresh. Stars, when Tom peered through the leaves on the trees, glimmered down on them brightly.

“You look great,” Chris told him. 

Tom looked down in surprise. Chris’ hands were shoved inside his pockets. He had his hat on and Tom thought it was strange that someone like Chris who was nice and funny and told straightforward jokes sometimes, could look so different in a cowboy hat, authoritative. Cool. Like he was a man of action.

“You think so?” Tom said and gave him a little twirl, thumbs curled around his belt loops. 

“Yeah, you do,” Chris affirmed. “You don’t have to worry though.” He raised a hand honorably. “No matter how great you look tonight,” he said. “You’re safe with me.”

Tom laughed, rolling his eyes. “I don’t need safe,” he said.

“ _Well_ ,” said Chris. “What _do_ you need?”

Tom sighed, wishing he actually knew. “I’m not sure,” he said and made a face. He pretended to think about it. 

“I think I know just what you need,” Chris told him, walking closer.

“Tell me then,” Tom said. “I’m all ears.”

Chris, without warning, pushed him up a tree and kissed him, fists in his shirt. The brim of his hat moved up his forehead, shrouding Tom’s face. Then he pulled away, eyes closed, nose rubbing the side of Tom’s cheek, and breathed. He tasted like fresh beer. The scratch of his teeth on Tom’s bottom lip made Tom smile slowly. 

“Did I look like I needed that?” asked Tom in a whisper.

“Yeah, _a little_ ,” Chris said. He plucked his hat off his head and set it gingerly on top of Tom’s. 

“Perfect,” he said and kissed Tom again.

When they heard a loud crash from the barn, they sprung back simultaneously, sharing a glance of mutual panic. But it was just David being David when they came back to check, making himself comfortable on the buffet table, jacket pillowed under his head. He’d pushed the plates off the surface to make room to sleep. His leg dangled off the side, touching the floor.

Chris laughed as David’s snores filled the barn. 

“Good night David,” Tom said softly, setting Chris’ hat to partially cover David’s face.

“He looks like a sleeping angel,” Chris cooed and the two of them watched David for awhile as he choked on a breath and muttered something indistinct. His noises were like that of something dying, bursts of wet air interspersed with angry sobs. And then all of a sudden he quieted down, twitching in his sleep like he’d jerk upright at any moment.

“Is he always like that?” Chris asked. 

Tom shook his head. “You have no idea,” he said and laughed.

 

*

 

Tom followed Chris up to the loft where Chris lowered the lights and sank back on the lumpy couch with a sigh. He tipped his head back and batted his eyes up at Tom. His grin was infectious as he patted his knee, raising his eyebrows suggestively before bursting out laughing.

Tom gladly took the invitation and straddled his lap, knees planted on either side of Chris’ hips. He felt Chris’ hands roam his clothed back for a minute before tugging up his shirt and reaching for the skin underneath. Then Chris inclined his head to kiss him and Tom cradled Chris’ jaw and parted his lips with a sweep of his tongue. 

Chris tugged the first two buttons of Tom’s shirt free before pressing his mouth to Tom’s collarbone, moving up to the side of his neck where he sucked a bruise. He tugged Tom forward, fingers curled tight around the v of Tom’s shirt, free hand squeezing Tom’s ass. 

Tom didn’t think it would go very far – some rubbing maybe or, if they were feeling frisky, a quick handjob – but then Chris was flipping him onto his back and pawing at his belt, dragging his pants and boxers down in one quick movement until they bunched around his boots. Tom kicked them off in earnest, completely naked from the waist down and shivering in delight because of it. He spread his legs to allow Chris to settle between them, and Chris grabbed him by the hips to pull him close enough to kiss, cupping his hands over the back of Tom’s thighs and thrusting against him, the friction of his jeans delicious enough to make Tom rut up against him. 

“You wanna fuck me?” Tom said, as Chris reached down and curled a hand around his stiffening cock. 

Chris stroked him once, twice, till Tom bucked forward and moaned. 

“Yeah,” Chris breathed. “Yeah, I do.”

Chris shucked his pants off quickly, turning out the pockets for the tube of lubricant he’d said he’d brought _just in case_. He prepared Tom thoroughly, thick deliberate drags of his fingers that made Tom’s cock bead at the tip. Then he licked up Tom’s inner thigh and nipped the skin there gently, leaving tiny marks with his teeth.

Tom was ready before Chris even breached him, pushing the thick head of his cock past Tom’s slippery hole. He sank with a low groan, panting harshly like he was in pain. 

Chris yanked Tom forward when he was seated all the way inside, Tom’s knee lifted over his shoulder as Chris began a steady rocking motion, one foot braced on the floor, shallow at first, before slamming in deep enough that Tom’s breath hitched inside his chest.

Then Chris was pulling out, patting his thigh as he sat down on the other end of the couch, cock an angry red curve against his belly. “I want you to sit on me,” he said.

“What?” said Tom.

“Ride me,” Chris told him. “Come on, up _here_.”

Tom clenched his eyes shut and moaned. He crawled up Chris’ lap, weak-kneed and shaking, guiding Chris inside with a trembling whine. Chris’ cock sank clean inside him and nudged him open again as Tom began moving in earnest, hooking his arms around Chris’ neck as Chris rocked him back and forth, each upward thrust hitting Tom’s prostate.

Tom knew he was going to come soon, balls aching and heavy as Chris’ large rough hands engulfed his hips and eased him through each stroke. He dug his fingers into Chris’ shoulder, panted up his ear, mouthing at the soft curve of his neck as he bore down Chris’ lap. 

“You’re doing great,” Chris told him, sliding his hands down Tom’s hips and hauling him in. 

Tom wasn’t going to last long, his cock smearing a thick dribble of precome across Chris’ chest with every stuttery jerk of Chris’ hips.

“Chris,” he gasped. “Chris, fuck. Fuck _me_. I’m close. I’m _so_ close.”

It felt good, and Tom felt nearly hysterical when Chris pulled him forward and bruised his mouth with a sloppy kiss. When Chris came seconds later, groaning and clutching him close, Tom squirmed and pressed down on him gently, hoping to ride the aftershocks and milk him clean of come. He followed a little later, shuddering and biting down on Chris shoulder as his cock rubbed against Chris’ stomach. He rolled his hips a few times to chase the burn before collapsing facefirst against Chris’ neck. 

It took him awhile to notice they’d finished. Tom turned his head and winced as Chris’ cock slipped out of him. 

Chris began kissing up his hairline, fingers unfurled over the back of Tom’s neck so he could tip him back and nose at his throat.

Tom was going to miss him when he left in two days; how he smelled, the full force of his smile. The sturdy shape of his knees. “I don’t want to go,” he told Chris, and felt foolish and young for being so honest about it.

Chris looked startled but knocked their foreheads together, smiling ruefully as he chewed the corner of his lip. There it was again: that look in his face. It made Tom’s stomach flip and his heart do crazy somersaults; it wasn’t healthy. 

“You can always stay a few days,” Chris said lightly, running a fingernail absently up Tom’s ribs.

Tom shrugged, and when he said nothing more, Chris rubbed his back. “You think too much,” he sighed. “Just enjoy the moment, okay? We’ll have plenty of time later to figure stuff out. _Okay?_ ”

“I suppose,” Tom agreed. “Okay,” he said later.

“Seriously,” Chris said, cracking an eye open and lifting his head. “We’ll be fine.” He smiled again, but softer this time, unwound. 

“You were great, by the way,” Chris said by way of afterthought, flushing like he was embarrassed to tell him. “Just like I knew you would be.”

Tom laughed. “Thank you,” he said, oddly embarrassed himself. “You weren’t terrible, either, you know. A little too quick for me there at the end but not too bad. I give it half a star for trying.” He patted Chris on the cheek. 

Chris’ shoulders shook as he laughed.

Tom yawned and shifted off Chris’ lap, tugging on his pants and squirming as Chris’ come trickled down his thigh. He was going to regret that, he knew, but right now he didn’t want to think about the possible consequences of the last five days; he felt entirely too relaxed and out of his body, softened by the comfortable silence they were sharing to worry past this moment. 

Chris was right though; they would have time, if they were willing to put in the extra effort, to figure things out for themselves. But for now they had this, whatever it was, and it was too beautiful to let slip.

So Tom sighed as he basked in the rich flurry of contentment that spread from his toes and seeped up between his shoulders. He rubbed Chris’ knee as he stared up at the ceiling. A decorative lamp swung noiselessly as moths gathered around it. Wind whispered in through the eaves.

Chris dressed, left for a moment, and returned five minutes later with a bottle of coke, one of those glass ones with the curved body that Tom thought they didn’t even make anymore, and then he sat down next to him and without fanfare took a long thirsty swig of his drink. 

After a minute of welcome quiet, he offered Tom a sip and Tom smiled and accepted it gratefully without comment. 

Later, when they walked back to Chris’ shack, not even holding hands or talking, the sky slowly turned blue into morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is something i had promised [brodinsons](http://brodinsons.tumblr.com/) a month ago. it is loosely based on [vanceasstrovik’s cowboy/brokeback mountain au graphic](http://vanceasstrovik.tumblr.com/post/28682115350/brokeback-ish-cowboy-au-for-deathbychai-tom) which you should all check out. 
> 
> david is an unintentional _cabin in the woods_ reference, except he is a real person and played poins in thc. 
> 
> this fic would not have been possible if it weren’t for the following people so i want to thank them from my heart of hearts: [umakoo](http://umakoo.tumblr.com/) who was with me every painful step of the way to flail and cry with, [marybrandybuck](http://marybrandybuck.tumblr.com/) who got the ball rolling with her epic resource post and great ideas most of which are featured in this fic, and [luccellino](http://luccellino.tumblr.com/) whose art inspired me to get my ass writing. 
> 
> lastly, i just wanted to say: [brodinsons](http://brodinsons.tumblr.com/), if it hadn’t been for you, i wouldn’t even be in this fandom writing these crazy stories. you are brilliant; thank you for gracing the world with your fics ♥.
> 
> and also not forgetting: _you_. thank you for your time and company. you've been great. 
> 
> aaaaand that's all folks! see you next time! same bat time, same bat channel!


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